by Robin Jarvis
Miss Boston waggled from side to side as she pedalled up the gravel drive. In one wobbly movement, she dismounted from the bicycle and rested it against the porch. The iron bell-pull jangled in her fingers and she waited patiently for admittance.
Mrs Banbury-Scott kept three servants: Grice, her gruff chauffeur and gardener; Mrs Rigpath, the cook; and a dumpy little maid called Rachel Turner. It was the last who opened the door.
‘Oh, hello. Miss,’ Rachel said brightly on seeing Aunt Alice. ‘Come in. Madam has got a visitor but I shouldn’t think she’d mind if you joined them. They’re in the morning room.’
Miss Boston removed her outdoor things and made her way down the oak-panelled hall. ‘And how is your mother, Rachel dear?’ she asked the maid chattily. ‘Still devoted to her garden?’ They exchanged a few pleasantries before Aunt Alice asked, as they stood outside the morning room, ‘By the way, just who has she got in there?’
‘Why, Mrs Cooper, Miss,’ Rachel replied. ‘Didn’t I say?’ She knocked and opened the door whilst the old lady winced and pulled a disagreeable face—she had not expected this.
‘Miss Boston, Madam,’ announced Rachel.
The morning room was comfort itself; it had a general air of doziness about it, a perfect place to nod off. The chairs were of old, worn leather and the pile of the rugs was soft and deep. The curtains were heavily embroidered and very thick, to shut out the cold winter nights. Miss Boston had spent many a cosy afternoon in this room. Now, though, she was ill at ease and braced herself for this meeting. Her suspicions about Rowena Cooper gnawed at her as she entered.
There in the snug armchair was Mrs Banbury-Scott. Her small, pig-like eyes were puffy and red—she had been crying. Rowena perched on a cushion in front of the hearth, soaking up the fire’s heat. She was feeding the fat woman chocolates from another of those gold cardboard boxes.
‘Alice,’ burbled Mrs Banbury-Scott anxiously. ‘Poor Pru—Prudence,’ and she descended into a fit of hysterical tears and woeful grunts.
‘Such dreadful news,’ Rowena Cooper broke in. ‘I was deeply shocked when I heard and rushed straight round to Dora’s. She is such a sensitive soul, she feels this loss most deeply. Why, when I first arrived she was inconsolable.’
Miss Boston sat down and eyed the blonde woman shrewdly. All she said had a false ring to it. She puckered her lips and the question which had been burning her tongue leapt out on its own. ‘Did Prudence visit you last night, Mrs Cooper?’
Rowena fluttered her eyelashes and answered smartly—and rather too readily—‘Why, no. Why should she do that?’
Mrs Banbury-Scott lowered the handkerchief of Nottingham lace which she had been wailing and spitting chocolatey phlegm into. ‘Rowena’s been marvellous, Alice,’ she breathed hoarsely. ‘I feel quite ill myself now. I don’t know what I would have done without her.’ She took the box and her pink, sausage-shaped fingers rooted about in it.
‘More chocolates?’ murmured Miss Boston mildly. ‘My goodness, you do seem to have an inexhaustible supply, Mrs Cooper.’
‘If they comfort dear Dora then they are a small price to pay,’ she replied with sickening humility.
An idea suddenly struck Aunt Alice. ‘And what do you think of her house now?’ she asked abruptly.
A momentary look of distress appeared on Rowena’s face. ‘Why… it’s a darling residence,’ she eventually cooed. ‘I am green with envy.’
The inconsolable Mrs Banbury-Scott stuffed another chocolate into her face and waved the hanky again. ‘I shall show you round,’ she told Rowena gratefully.
Miss Boston got up to leave, feeling as though she was intruding upon the pair of them. She was surprised at how quickly Rowena had ingratiated herself with Dora. But then, the fat woman had always been prone to flattery.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘now I must be going. I only came to see if you’d heard the news.’
The others hardly turned round to see her go. Miss Boston hesitated at the door and took one last look at Rowena as the woman threw back her head and laughed too loudly at something Mrs Banbury-Scott had said. Just what was she up to?
Jennet rammed her hands into the deep pockets of her coat. The town of Whitby lay behind her and she scanned the beaches for signs of Ben. He had gone out directly after tea again; it was a most annoying habit of his. She had no idea where he got to, but he usually came back in time for supper. Tonight, however, he had not returned. It was now half past ten and she was worried. Aunt Alice had gone over to Miss Droon’s some time ago and she had not come back either, so Jennet went out to look for her troublesome brother alone.
The wind was cold and she wished she had a Thermos of hot soup with her. She walked along one of the piers that stretched, pincer-like, into the sea. From here she thought she would be able to see a good deal of the coast, but it had grown too dark now; even if Ben was on the beach, her eyes could not penetrate the gloom.
Whitby twinkled before her. The lights of the amusement arcades sparkled and the street lamps were like tangled necklaces of fiery gems. Jennet turned her head to the East Cliff and gazed at the abbey. Her eyes wandered to the church, and then she gasped.
Fluttering among the gravestones was a figure in white. Jennet wondered if Ben had taken a sheet from his bed and was playing ghosts up there. She was furious. After all that had happened to him, Ben was still drawn to phantoms and the supernatural? Jennet hurried back along the pier and ran to the steps.
The wind was stronger on the cliff, and as Jennet entered the churchyard it snatched her breath away. She glanced round but there was no sign of the white figure; it must have moved behind the church. Great arc lights were positioned on the ground to illuminate the building and, as she made her way between the tombs, her shadow was flung against the great stone walls. It was a monstrous, distorted shape and in the corner of her eye she could see it mimicking her movements. Jennet shivered. It was extremely creepy up here at night. Beyond the blinding lights there were impenetrable wells of darkness where anything could be hiding.
‘Ben must be mad to come here,’ she said to herself.
She followed the narrow path round to the far side of the church and scanned the expanse of headstones for her brother. There it was, the figure in white. Jennet stared at it for some moments before she realised that it was too tall to be Ben. A sudden urge to discover more gripped the girl and, as quietly as she could, she crept closer and crouched down behind a gravestone.
The figure was near the cemetery wall, staring out to sea with the wind tugging at its white robes. The garment was oddly familiar, but as it flapped in the wind it was difficult to be sure. Suddenly Jennet bit her lip in surprise—the stranger was one of the sisters from the convent!
What was one of the novices doing up there in the dark? the girl wondered. Breathlessly she watched motionless and silent in the shadow of the gravestone.
The novice lifted her downcast head and turned it slightly to one side. Her face was extraordinary—not pretty yet too unusual to be plain. Her eyes were almond-shaped and the moonlight danced in them, but her mouth was too wide—it almost went from one side of her face to the other. Then the head was turned away once more, the shoulders drooped and the novice rested her elbows on the wall. She lowered her head and covered her eyes. Very quietly, she began to weep.
The soft whimpers floated into the night and, in her hiding place, Jennet felt miserable. She had never heard such a sound before; it wrenched at her heart and tore into her soul. The absolute desolation of those pathetic sobs left her feeling empty and cold.
The anguish was unbearable; it was as if the grief of centuries came pouring out in one fierce torrent of despair. Jennet trembled as the novice’s voice rose and the weeping became a horrible scream. Every terrible emotion was contained in that hideous wail.
Images of grief filled Jennet’s mind. She thought of her parents and remembered the day of the funeral. The ghastly, raw hurt she had felt then returned in a vicious rush. The girl hid her face and co
vered her ears, until she could bear it no longer.
‘Stop! Stop!’ she cried suddenly.
The woman whirled round in surprise, her face stricken with fear. She watched Jennet come out of her hiding place and her eyes were wide with fright.
‘It’s all right,’ Jennet said gently. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’
The novice flattened herself against the wall as the girl approached. She said nothing, but stared about wildly.
‘I only want to help,’ Jennet assured her.
But before she could say anything else, the sister darted away. Through the maze of graves she ran, as though a demon were after her. She fled past the arc lights and in their glare the white habit blazed as if it were on fire. Her billowing, dazzling shape resembled that of a moth which had fluttered too close to a candle flame. And then she was gone, vanished into the darkness as if the light had consumed her.
Jennet found herself shaking, whether from the cold or from nerves, she couldn’t say. Shivering, she walked home. There, she found Ben and the old lady finishing off their cocoa in the parlour. Jennet did not mention the novice to Aunt Alice, for she was not proud of the way she had spied on the poor woman. After she had drunk the steaming cup of hot chocolate which was waiting for her, the girl wearily went straight to bed, without even asking Ben where he had been.
The room was pitch dark when she awoke and for an awful moment Jennet thought she had been buried alive. But gradually her eyes adjusted and could make out the walls of her bedroom. She sighed with relief but twitched back one of the curtains to make sure. Moonlight poured in and she squinted sleepily at her watch—it was two in the morning.
Jennet knew why she had awoken in the middle of the night. She vaguely remembered the dream she had been having and pulled up the bedclothes to dispel the unpleasant memory. A dark shape had been stalking her. Its cry was terrifying and she was glad to have escaped the nightmare.
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Can’t seem to sleep properly any more.’
She rolled on to her side and stared at the stripes and flowers on the wallpaper. They made her feel comfortable and safe, locked cosily inside Aunt Alice’s house, where no evil thing could enter.
From the moonlit world outside there came a sound which banished all such thoughts. A dreadful howl boomed into the night, shattering the illusion of calm.
Jennet jumped to the window—it was the sound she had been hearing in her dreams. A sickening fear gripped her stomach as she realised they had not been nightmares after all. There was something prowling the streets of Whitby at night.
Peering over the windowsill, she gazed down on to the yard below. The light from one of the lamps in Church Street slanted in through the narrow alleyway, its pale tip just touching the sleeping geraniums by the front door. Jennet stared over the rooftops. Somewhere in the dark, narrow lanes the creature howled again. It was closer now.
Jennet felt very afraid. She tried to tell herself that she was being stupid and that it was probably just somebody’s dog crying to be let in. But deep down she knew it was more than that.
All at once the light in the yard was cut off, eclipsed by a large, black shape which blocked the alley. Its shadow stretched into the yard—it was that of an enormous hound. The beast paused and, as Jennet watched, the huge nostrils of the shadow sniffed and quested the air. For one awful moment she thought that it was searching for her, hunting for her scent and preparing to strike.
The shade grew blacker and larger as the beast crept further into the alley towards the yard. In that narrow tunnel of darkness, two points of red light glimmered malevolently. Jennet stepped back and clasped her hands tightly over her mouth to stop herself screaming.
The shadow lengthened, flowing over the doorstep and up to the lock. But when it reached the curious stone which hung above the lintel, it halted abruptly.
A deep growl vibrated through the air. Jennet shrank back and so did not see a faint blue radiance pierce the yard. The round, hollow stone over the front door was madly dancing on its thread, jerking and banging against the wall as if trying to get free. Small sparks of blue fire crackled from the hole at its centre and splashed down on to the threshold of the cottage like a waterfall of flame. The green door was lit up eerily and the solid darkness of the shadow suddenly fractured.
The eyes retreated back down the alley and a hideous snarl reverberated about the yard. The calm returned, broken only by the distant sound of claws as they clattered up the abbey steps.
The screeching of the gulls heralded a new morning. Miss Boston tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to wake the children.
She gazed at her reflection as she put on her hat and tutted: she was feeling her age today. All this sad business about Prudence had unsettled her. She felt sure she ought to have come across some clue as to how her friend had really died, but all her efforts had been useless. She had read some of the diary, though it was extremely boring; she had pestered Doctor Adams in case he had missed anything, but he had just been very rude to her; she had even questioned Prudence’s neighbours to see if they knew why she had gone out that night—but it was all to no avail. Prudence Joyster was being buried tomorrow afternoon and Miss Boston knew she had failed.
There was, of course, one other avenue she had not pursued and it was the most promising of them all. If only she could get the circle together and hold just one more seance. What better person to ask than Prudence herself? Miss Boston was sorely tempted to try, but the promise she had made to Jennet did not allow it.
Sighing with resignation, she slung the cloak over her shoulders and opened the front door.
‘Great heavens!’ she exclaimed.
The doorstep was covered in a fine coating of ash and cinders. The old lady looked up to where the stone had hung but only the thread remained and that was black and charred. Her face became grave. ‘I see,’ she said in a whisper. ‘So that is what I am dealing with. I should have guessed as much.’
Aunt Alice swept the mess from the step before she went on her walk. There was hardly a breeze that morning, which was a pity, as she felt she had a great many cobwebs that needed blowing away. As she passed the spot where Mrs Joyster had died she paused. ‘I wish I knew what was going on. Prudence dear,’ she sighed.
‘Alice! Alice!’ called a voice.
The old lady looked heavenwards and a great smile lit her wrinkled face. ‘Prudence?’ she asked with delight.
Alas, it was not the spirit of Mrs Joyster, only the grisled reality of Matilda Droon. She came panting down Church Street with a worried expression on her whiskered face and a well-chewed toy mouse in her hand. ‘Alice!’ she cried again.
Miss Boston hid her disappointment and noticed that Tilly had not bothered to get dressed properly. Her cardigan was buttoned incorrectly and she was still wearing her old carpet slippers. She raised her eyebrows curiously but waited for her to come closer.
‘Tilly, dear,’ Aunt Alice said, smiling indulgently at her friend, ‘whatever is the matter? You don’t usually get up this early.’
Miss Droon was out of breath. She waved Binky, the toy mouse, and puffed, ‘She’s gone, went off just like that. How can she leave her babies? She’s a terrible mother!’
Aunt Alice wearily rolled her eyes. ‘Eurydice?’ she ventured.
Tilly nodded anxiously. ‘Whatever shall I do?’ she asked unhappily.
‘Don’t worry, dear, she won’t have gone far. You know all her favourite haunts—try one of those.’
‘I suppose I could,’ Tilly said slowly. ‘But where to start?’
‘Well, what about the last place we found her?’
Miss Droon’s face brightened at once. ‘Of course—Mrs Cooper’s house. I shall go there at once.’ And she immediately began to climb the abbey steps.
Aunt Alice frowned. ‘Be careful, Tilly dear,’ she called after her—but Miss Droon took no notice.
Miss Boston was in no mood
for her walk now. She sauntered back along Church Street but didn’t take the alley that led to her cottage. She was troubled, and walked with her eyes fixed on the ground as though it might yield up some clue to the mystery of Prudence’s death.
The old lady crossed the bridge, wrapped in thought. She was not aware of the direction she was going, but when she looked up she found herself outside the police station. It seemed to be exceedingly busy inside for this early hour. Miss Boston pushed open the door and went inside.
‘Good morning. Constable,’ she said to the young man behind the reception desk.
He looked up and wished he was on duty elsewhere—everyone in the station knew Miss Boston. ‘Morning, madam,’ he said civilly. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
Aunt Alice was looking at all the coming and going behind the glass doors to the left. ‘I say,’ she inquired, ‘has something exciting occurred?’
Constable Mayhew liked a quiet life. He knew that if he pretended he had not heard the question, the old dragon would only ask it again and make a nuisance of herself. Besides, it wasn’t confidential business. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Burglary last night at Pannett Park.’
‘The museum?’ gasped the old lady. ‘Good heavens—what was stolen?’
‘Only one exhibit was removed from the premises, madam—the Hand of Glory.’
Miss Boston said nothing but her face was a picture of bewilderment which gradually changed to one of concern. ‘I see,’ she said quietly.
Constable Mayhew allowed himself a little smile. Really, these old ladies were so nosey. That was obviously all she had come in for—to see if there was anything interesting to gossip about. He picked up a sheaf of papers and tapped them tidily on the desk like a newsreader, to appear busy. ‘If that’s all, madam,’ he said briskly, ‘I do have work to do.’
Miss Boston nodded and made for the door, but turned round again when she reached it. ‘Oh, Constable,’ she began, ‘how did the thieves break in? I do hope nothing was damaged.’
