The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  Personally he found the entire place incredibly creepy, when he thought about what had happened to it. He clapped his hands together and tried to dispel the icy tingle that was prickling the hairs on his neck.

  "Yes," he began, "as you can see, there is rather a lot of splintered wood and what a desecration to this divine parquet floor. I understand that all this vandalism took but a few hours to achieve." He did not mention how it had been done—the thought of a mad woman racing round the house, swinging an axe was enough to put anybody off. He turned to add something more but was perturbed to discover that his client was still standing on the doorstep. "Oh dear," he said crestfallen, "is it really so bad, Mr Crozier? One gets accustomed to the devastation. I suppose it must be quite a shock to you."

  Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "Actually I was waiting to be invited in," he replied.

  Young Mr Parks gaped like a goldfish for a moment then was full of apologies. "Oh forgive me!" he pleaded. "I didn't think, one meets so few people with true manners these days. The barbarity of the great unwashed tends to rub off. Please, come in."

  The bearded man entered and gazed around with interest at the dreadful state of the house.

  Mr Parks followed him from room to room, always two steps behind. "You can see the furniture is all intact," he boasted. "Oh don't look at the fireplace, that really is too awful. What a mess."

  Nathaniel prowled round like a hound after a scent. When they had reached the drawing room his agitation was plain to see. "Mr Olive told me that the last owner did all this," he said. "In your opinion, what would drive someone to such destruction?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine," answered Mr Parks, but he saw that the man was not satisfied. It was time to tell him the whole truth—he would hear it from someone sooner or later. Drawing closer, he lowered his voice. "By all accounts, Mrs Cooper was rather peculiar. As soon as she got her hands on this place she sacked all the staff and went on the rampage. Gives me the abdabs it does. Totally unhinged, not a doubt of it. You only have to look at her other house, the one on Abbey Lane—we handled the sale of that one too. I understood she had the place totally redecorated, but it's worse than this. That's the trouble nowadays, you never quite know who it is you're dealing with. She was obviously a mental patient of some sort. Still, she didn't murder anyone so that's something to be thankful for."

  Nathaniel allowed himself a private smile and asked dryly, "Do you know what happened to her?"

  "Disappeared," said the estate agent, snapping his fingers. "Vanished without a trace. The police couldn't find her anywhere. I think she threw herself into the sea—people like that do all sorts of silly things, don't they? I had an uncle who kept guinea-pigs, not in hutches mind—let them have the run of the house. Towards the end he had over a hundred of the brutes, it was like a miniature cattle ranch in there. Do you know what he did when he finally realised he couldn't afford to feed them all? He just left the front door wide open—caused chaos on the road. The last I heard he had developed an unhealthy interest in hanging baskets. Other people's, naturally—remarkable."

  Nathaniel had had enough. There was nothing more to discover here, not with this idiot trailing after him like an unshakeable shadow. He made a point of looking at his watch and said that he had seen enough.

  "Oh, but you haven't seen half of the property yet!" exclaimed a disappointed Mr Parks. "There're the lovely rooms under the gables and such an impressive cellarage. Why you haven't even glimpsed the garden at the back—it was always immaculately kept."

  "I'm not interested."

  "Oh well," Mr Parks sighed, leading him back through the ruined hall, "I suppose you're busy. Would you look at that poor banister, solid oak you know and frightfully difficult to replace." He stared glumly at the splintered length of wood before returning to his client. "Do you know that after she ransacked the house the demented creature went outside and almost demolished the garden shed? As if all this hadn't satisfied her. Frightening, isn't it, how mad the human race can get?"

  Nathaniel had reached the front door and was about to pull it open, but he hesitated. "You know, Mr Parks," he said, turning and marching back through the wreckage, "I believe I will examine this garden of yours."

  The garden of the Banbury-Scott residence was as grand as the building it surrounded. It had always been a source of tremendous admiration—and envy from those privileged to be invited to the garden fêtes held there. In summer the flower beds were awash with vibrant colour and the scent of the roses on an August evening was almost as strong as the cider the gardener used to drink. For decades, the sprawling lawns had been the pride of Grice. He had tended to the garden's needs through frost, drought and flood and its beauty was a testament to his care and innovation. But Grice had been dismissed along with the parlour maid and the cook, so for two months the garden had been neglected. The grass desperately needed cutting and dead leaves floated in the ornamental pond.

  "We really ought to engage someone to see to this," commented Mr Parks, "before it gets totally out of control. Still, with winter coming I don't suppose we need worry too much. Come over here, Mr Crozier, there's a delightful secluded area, almost a secret garden and it gets all the sunlight in the summer. There's rather a nice statuette too, of... oh."

  Nathaniel had wandered away from the prattling man and was heading for an old stone hut situated against the garden wall.

  Mr Parks came running after him. "There's nothing over here of much interest," he gabbled. "Wouldn't you rather see the path made entirely from terracotta tiles flown in from Mexico?"

  "Is this where Mrs Cooper went after she had torn up the house?" Nathaniel asked striding up to the heavy door of the outbuilding.

  The estate agent confirmed that it was but failed to see why he was so interested in a converted pig pen when there were so many other more interesting sights to view.

  Nathaniel ignored him and pushed the door open. It looked like a whirlwind had visited the place. The high, stacked shelves had been thrown to the floor and all the nails and screws which had been carefully stored in tins were scattered everywhere.

  "Dear, dear," tutted Mr Parks, "God knows what was going through her mind—sheer lunacy. Grice used to love sitting in here, he was so, well shed-proud, I suppose. Funny, he's never been back you know, won't come near the place. Poor man, it must be awful to have your private world violated in this manner. Would you look at that wall, hacked to pieces, plaster everywhere. Mind you don't get it on your clothes, Mr Crozier."

  Nathaniel picked his way through the rubble. The near wall had certainly been ripped open. Most of the plaster that had covered it now lay at his feet and he ran his fingers across the bare stone it had revealed. There was a long trough cut into it. Nathaniel's eyes narrowed and he immediately stooped to search amongst the dusty heaps of broken plaster.

  "Well, really!" sniffed Mr Parks, stepping back as Nathaniel stirred up a cloud of dirt. "What are you doing?"

  The other man did not reply but continued to rake through the debris. Mr Parks stepped outside to escape from the dust, a handkerchief over his mouth.

  And then Nathaniel found it. He knew there had to be something and there it was. From the piles of rubbish he brought out a fragment of plaster as large as his hand. One side was smooth, except for four strange symbols that had been gouged into it. A look of understanding passed over his face.

  "Oh, Roselyn," he breathed, "how could you have made such a fatal blunder? Did you really give no heed to these?" He blew the remaining dirt off and inspected the fragment more closely. "The central sign is the mark of Hilda," he observed, "but what of the three which circle round it? Why were you so blind?" He could hardly contain his excitement. This confirmed all his researches and made every risk worthwhile. Quickly he slipped it into his pocket and stepped back outside.

  Mr Parks was busy brushing stray flecks of dust off his suit. When his client rejoined him the estate agent eyed him uncertainly. "What were you searching for in there
?" he inquired.

  "Oh," Nathaniel shrugged, "I thought I saw a rat dart from the rubbish—I thought there might be a nest."

  Mr Parks was appalled and pulled a horrified face. "A rat!" he repeated. "And you were scrabbling after it?" He shivered and covered his mouth with the handkerchief once more.

  "I think I've seen all I need to for the moment," Nathaniel continued. "Thank you for your time, it has been a most instructive morning."

  "Yes... erm." Mr Parks had not quite recovered himself. "I'll show you out, then." His client, however, was already marching towards the house. "Rat nests," the estate agent muttered incredulously, "I ask you."

  ***

  Jennet lay the book on her knee and ate a biscuit. It was blissfully quiet and peaceful as both Ben and Miss Wethers were out and she was alone in the cottage. Her brother had gone to see a friend of Aunt Alice's; not long ago Mr Roper had promised to help make a guy for bonfire night and the boy was keeping him to his word. The postmistress, after spending the entire day fussing over one thing and another, had discovered that she had run out of tissues. She had dithered for a full half-hour before deciding whether to leave Jennet on her own or not and by the time she had left the girl was worn out.

  Munching on the chocolate digestive, Jennet wondered if she could stand a full four days of Miss Wethers. The thought crossed her mind that it was the postmistress who needed looking after, not Ben and herself.

  After some minutes she turned her attention back to the book. Desert Amour was a romantic novel that Miss Wethers had brought with her. Jennet usually had no time for that sort of literature, but today she made an exception and was surprised to find herself enjoying it. Mrs Rodice, the ghastly woman who ran the hostel that she and Ben had once stayed at, used to read books like this too and Jennet could understand why. It was just the sort of escapism she craved; the heroine, Veronica Forthgood, was a dark-eyed beauty who continually suffered from the machinations of her half-sister Sonia. It was Sonia, of course, who had tricked the hero, Maximilian Strong, into joining the Foreign Legion, and Jennet was just reaching the point where Veronica had finally found him, delirious under the desert sun, when a knock sounded at the front door.

  Jennet considered letting whoever it was go away, but the thought occurred to her that it might be Ben back early from Mr Roper's. Reluctantly she put down the book and left the parlour to investigate.

  "Good afternoon," said Nathaniel, once she had opened the door, "isn't it a glorious day for November?"

  Jennet tried to conceal her pleasure at seeing him.

  "Mr Crozier, isn't it? Can I help you?"

  "Please," he grinned, "call me Nathaniel." His deep black eyes shone out at her and Jennet felt weak under their unwavering glare. "I seem to be locked out of the Gregsons'," he lied. "As you know, I'm lodging with them for a time. When I went out I left the spare key in my room and now it appears they have gone out also." He shrugged his shoulders like an apologetic child. "So," he mumbled shyly, "I wonder if you would be so kind as to invite me into your house for the time being—until they return."

  "Oh," said Jennet uncertainly, "I shouldn't. You see there's only me here and Aunt Alice told me..."

  Nathaniel nodded, he knew all the time that she was alone, but said, "Then I wouldn't dream of bothering you any further. I quite understand and won't be in the least bit offended. I'll just sit on the Gregsons' step until they return."

  He began walking back to the next door neighbours; but Jennet called after him, "No don't do that! I'm sure it's all right. You were talking to Aunt Alice this morning so she obviously knows you, it isn't as though you were a total stranger. Please, come in."

  Nathaniel crossed the threshold into Miss Boston's cottage—that was boringly easy.

  Jennet showed him into the parlour and the man looked about with interest. He was particularly taken with the books on the shelves and spent a few moments with his back to the girl, intently reading the spines. "Your aunt has an eccentric collection," he remarked, "an awful lot of mumbo jumbo here—does she really believe in this stuff? I hope such ridiculous faith doesn't run in the family. You seem far too intelligent for that supernatural nonsense."

  Jennet shook her head. "She isn't really my aunt," she confided, "Ben and I just call her that, and no, I don't really believe in it—or I try not to. I don't even read the horoscopes in the paper."

  "Very wise," he commented. "And what sort of thing do you read?"

  "Oh, you know," she said airily, "all kinds. There are some history books up there I find quite interesting and..." Her voice faltered, for Nathaniel was glancing at the armchair where Desert Amour lay open in all its shameless glory.

  Jennet felt herself blush. "That's Miss Wethers'," she blurted hastily. Nathaniel gave her a knowing look and she knew he guessed the truth—how embarrassing!

  "I see," he said mildly, "so, the postmistress is a fan of Davina Montgomery. She is not alone in that, over half the women in Britain are addicted to such fiction. It is no crime to seek escape—how else could they cope with the drudge of their daily existence?"

  "That's what I was thinking!" said Jennet.

  "Were you indeed?" he asked. "Then you know there is no harm in dreams. Fantasies are as necessary to us as breathing—without them we should all perish. Each and every one of us must chase after our desires and embrace them. Do you not agree?"

  "Yes."

  He held her with his smile and Jennet found herself wanting to know all about this fascinating man. But his next question took her by surprise.

  "Where are your parents?" he asked.

  She looked down at the carpet before answering, "They... they died two years ago."

  "That must have been very difficult for you."

  "It was—still is."

  "You have been very brave, I see that a great weight has been put on your shoulders. Your eyes tell me this; a great deal can be learnt from the study of one's eyes—they are the mirrors of the soul. When you meet someone for the first time, what is it you look at—his nose, his hair, his mouth? When two lovers stare across a table at each other, what are they staring at? It is the eyes, those small windows that betray the inner self. Nothing can hide in them. Of all the separate, unreliable pieces of mankind they are the most honest. Tell me, Jennet, what do you see in mine?"

  Jennet was nervous; she wanted to look and yet deep down some basic instinct was warning her not to. "Beware," it cautioned her, "beware."

  "Look at me, Jennet," Nathaniel pressed.

  Slowly she raised her head and stared into his eyes. "They... they're so dark," she whispered, "black and cold, like splinters of black glass. I'll cut myself on them—oh!" she tried to wrench herself free but it was too late, Jennet was lost.

  Nathaniel clicked his fingers in her face, the girl did not even flinch. "Sit down," he told her.

  At once Jennet obeyed, she was completely in his power now and had no will of her own.

  Nathaniel threw Miss Wethers' book on the floor and made himself comfortable on the armchair. "Tell me, child," he demanded, "tell me what you know of Rowena Cooper."

  And so, Jennet told him everything. She spoke like an automaton, in a dead monotone and, with great detail, related the events that had occurred between Miss Boston and his late wife. How Rowena had searched for the magical staff of Hilda, murdering several of Aunt Alice's friends in the process and how she had at last found the staff, wielding it to the peril of everybody. When she had finished Nathaniel was not at all pleased.

  "How could she have been such a fool?" he snapped. "Why did she not listen to me? The staff was not what I was after! How could she allow herself to be tricked—and by such a one as that senile amateur?" He rose from the chair and paced around the room, seething with fury until at last he turned back to Jennet. "And the staff of Hilda," he cried, "where is it now? Does Alice Boston possess it?"

  "No," droned Jennet's reply, "it was taken from this world altogether."

  The news seemed to
be a great relief to Nathaniel and he relaxed. "Good," he said with a satisfied, unpleasant smile, "then that leaves the way clear. Thank you, my child, a most interesting little conversation, I can see you shall be very useful. It is perhaps unfortunate that your brother has the sight, even more worrying is the fact that it was he who discovered the moonkelp. Now he has the favour of the Lords of the Deep—that is a sobering circumstance. Still, I trust I can achieve my goal—one eight-year-old thorn in my side is something I can handle. There have been worse dangers. All will be well—for me at least."

  Jennet rubbed her eyes, she had the most excruciating headache.

  "Of course, when I was digging in Egypt, my group had the most awful case of jippy tummy I've ever experienced. Quite frightful it was. The location might have been exotic but all they saw for the first three days was the inside of the loo."

  Dizzily, she stared across at the man in the armchair. He was mildly sipping a cup of tea and chatting away as if they had known each other for years. The pain was easing a little now, she had never suffered from headaches before. Try as she might she could not recall what they had been talking about—she could not even remember making the tea.

  "Are you all right?" asked Nathaniel with concern. "You look almost green. I've been rabbiting on, haven't I? Forgive me, one tends to forget how boring these anecdotes can be to other people. Dear me, here's me trotting on about Nairobi, Peru and Egypt without even noticing the effect it's having on you."

  "I'm sorry," Jennet apologised, "it's just a headache, it's clearing now. Please—go on."

  He smiled at her. "You are kind," he said, "but I've taken up too much of your time already. The Gregsons must be back by now. Thank you so much for inviting me in. You have been a most enchanting hostess." Rising from the chair he gave the girl a formal bow. Jennet felt the butterflies flutter inside—Mr Crozier had to be the politest man she had ever met.

  "Let me see you out," she offered eagerly, running to the front door.