The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

by Robin Jarvis

  "Enough," she gasped, "I submit. In two days I shall be yours."

  The breath rattled in Esau's throat and he grasped the throne for support. She would be an excellent match for him and he gave a greedy, wheezing laugh.

  Nelda, however, had not finished. "Yes, I shall marry you," she said, "but the ceremony must be attended by my human friend—the man child, Ben."

  Esau snarled and he spun round like a whipped dog. "A human!" he cried. "Wouldst thou invite the entire accursed race into our halls?"

  "I ask for one only," she replied. "If Ben is not here then there will be no wedding."

  The elder licked his gums in annoyance, then he sneered and told her, "Verily thy friend shall attend. He is most welcome to witness our marriage—yet at that time say unto him all that thou wouldst, for in after days thou shalt never again see the human child. When thou art bound to me the upper world will be forbidden and thy friend shall be withered to death and rotting in his grave before the ban is lifted!" He turned his back on them all and returned to sit on the throne. The meeting was over.

  The tribe glanced at Nelda uncertainly. One by one they gradually left the chamber and began the long trudge back to their homes, troubled in heart and mind.

  Nelda shook her head sorrowfully. What she had feared was indeed coming to pass. Esau would keep her a prisoner down here, she would never see the daylight again and, after her wedding, Ben too would be a memory to be forgotten.

  "Come, lass," Tarr softly spoke in her ear, "theer's plenty to see to."

  With a final look at her future husband, Nelda followed her grandfather from the chamber.

  Hunched on the throne, Esau fingered the pearl at his throat and wetted his dry lips at the thought of the forthcoming wedding.

  4 - The Charming Man

  "Where is that confounded thing!" cried an exasperated Miss Boston. She heaved the large suitcase from her bed and peered underneath. "Well, what are you doing there?" she demanded of her nightdress. Wearily she dragged it out and stuffed it into the already bulging case.

  Her friend, Edith Wethers, peered in through the bedroom door. "Hurry, Alice," she fussed. "The train to Darlington leaves in an hour. If you don't catch it then you won't make your connection."

  Miss Boston puckered her lips and tried to control herself. Miss Wethers had been making useful comments like that all morning. "Haven't you got a post office to run, Edith dear?" she muttered through gritted teeth.

  "I told you, Alice, I asked Mrs Simpson to open today. I knew you'd need all the help you could get."

  So far as Miss Boston could see, Edith had been no help whatsoever. Still she could not criticise, for her friend had agreed to look after the children while she was away.

  "There!" the old lady sat on the suitcase and fastened it before it could spring apart again. "I do believe I have everything."

  Miss Wethers examined her watch and tutted. "Fifty minutes," she observed.

  Alice took a firm hold of her luggage and hauled it from the bed. "Oh my word!" she exclaimed, staggering under the weight. "It feels as though I'm off to climb Everest."

  "Do stop dawdling," urged Edith impatiently. "Why do you always have to leave everything to the last minute, Alice? It really is most irresponsible. What sort of an example are you setting for those children?" With her hands fluttering over the neck of her blouse she descended the stairs, blind to the rude faces Miss Boston was pulling behind her.

  Jennet and Ben were waiting for them in the hall; they had said nothing to Aunt Alice about Danny and Mark for they didn't want to worry her.

  "Here's your cloak," said Jennet, putting the tweed wrap around the old lady's shoulders.

  "Thank you, my dear," smiled Miss Boston. "My my, I do believe I'm ready for the off."

  "And not before time," remarked Edith.

  Miss Boston ignored her and gave each of the children a hug. "I shan't bother to ask you to be good for Miss Wethers," she told them. "I know you're both sensible enough to behave when I'm away. Jennet, I'm relying on you—remember."

  The girl nodded, she wanted to tell the old lady to have a good time, but as she was visiting someone on their deathbed it hardly seemed appropriate. Instead she said, "Have a safe journey—we'll miss you."

  "Oh nonsense," chirped Aunt Alice. "It's only four days—why, I shall be back before you know it."

  "Well, I hope so," said Miss Wethers.

  "Now don't forget, Benjamin," Miss Boston continued, "it's your job to take care of Eurydice and her little ones. You know how much to feed them, don't you? And when Madam goes out, put her on a string. I'm not having you traipsing off to that horrible house after her when I'm not here."

  Ben smiled, he was looking forward to having Miss Wethers staying with them. He knew she was allergic to cat fur and had been collecting some especially.

  "Now, Edith," Miss Boston said turning to her friend. "I trust you'll be all right?"

  Miss Wethers looked at her doubtfully. "Actually," she began, "there were one or two things." Her hand reached inside the sleeve of her cardigan and brought out a crumpled tissue with which she dabbed her nose. "I really don't feel at all prepared for this," she said, "you did rather spring it upon me. I'm just not qualified to look after two boisterous children. What will it do to my nerves? What am I to give them to eat?" She lowered her voice and in a delicate voice added, "And what about bathtime? What am I expected to do then? I tell you, Alice, I don't know if agreeing to this wasn't all a terrible mistake!" She buried her face in the tissue and blew hard.

  Miss Boston rolled her eyes to the ceiling and spent the last of her dwindling patience. "Oh for heaven's sake, Edith!" she sighed. "Pull yourself together! It's too late now to back out of it. I'm depending on you—the letter from Patricia only arrived a few days ago and there just wasn't time to arrange anything else. As for bathtimes, Jennet can see to herself and so can Ben. So don't get yourself in a tiz, you won't have to acquaint yourself with the male anatomy at all."

  Edith choked at that but Aunt Alice rattled on. "And what do you think they eat? They're not parakeets or a rare type of monkey—give them the same as you!"

  Ben rather fancied being a monkey and he bared his teeth at Miss Wethers whilst scratching himself under the arms.

  The postmistress stared at him in alarm and dragged Miss Boston into the parlour. "Did you see that?" she whined. "What sort of a boy is he? Alice, I've only ever lived with my mother, and she was bedridden for thirty of those years. What if something horrendous happens—what am I to do? Never was good in a crisis. I'm not Prudence, you know. I won't be able to cope, I just won't!"

  Miss Boston patted her on the shoulder. "'Course you will, Edith. Besides, I shall ring you every day at the post office and if there is an emergency you have the telephone number of Patricia's house. But what could possibly happen in four days? Goodness me, look at the time, only twenty minutes to get to the station. Come along—do you want me to miss this train?"

  At last Miss Boston managed to leave the cottage. The children and Miss Wethers were to accompany her to the train station and after five minutes of reassuring Edith about this and that, they were able to set off.

  As they passed the Gregsons' house, the door opened and Nathaniel Crozier smiled at them. "Good morning," he greeted them amiably.

  Miss Boston almost tripped over Edith in surprise. "Gracious me!" she exclaimed.

  "We meet again," he said. "I told you we would. Off to London now, are you? I hope Mrs Gunning recovers."

  "Er, thank you," murmured Aunt Alice, but she looked at the man strangely.

  Nathaniel beamed more broadly and Miss Wethers blushed. "Mr Crozier, isn't it?" she twittered into her hand. "You met me in the post office yesterday. Are you settling in?"

  "Most admirably," he replied, "and it's a great pleasure to see you again."

  Edith turned bright pink, but she could find nothing else to say to the winning man and hung her head, feeling cross with herself.

 
Even Jennet found the man's smile pleasant and she too felt the colour rise in her cheeks. Quickly she looked away in embarrassment.

  "Less than fifteen minutes!" declared Miss Boston. "Come along!" She bustled them out of the yard and through the narrow alley that led to Church Street.

  Ben had been watching his sister with some amusement, he had never seen her be coy before. Hanging back from the others he turned to steal a final glance at the man who had caused Jennet to blush. Nathaniel was still standing on the Gregsons' doorstep but the expression on his face had changed. It was like a storm cloud passing over the sun and Ben grimaced at the ugliness of it. Shuddering, he fled back up the alley and joined the others.

  "What did you say his name was?" Aunt Alice was asking the postmistress.

  "Mr Crozier," Edith replied dreamily, "isn't it a lovely name?"

  But Miss Boston was frowning at something and it was Jennet who answered, "Yes," she agreed, "it is lovely."

  Aunt Alice was too lost in her own thoughts to notice—where had she heard that name before?

  ***

  Young Mr Parks was the junior partner of Olive and Parks, the estate agents. Actually he was not that young but as he had succeeded his father it was easier for the locals to identify him as such in conversation. His nose was rather long and it ended sharply like a beak. The pale green eyes which sat on either side of this unfortunate protuberance were just that little bit too close together and they made him resemble a vulture. Sadly, from the first, his manner had also been against him, he was too flippant; when he showed prospective clients around desirable residences he had a habit of making jokes about the condition of the roof or the state of the floorboards. He thought he was putting them at their ease and jollying things along, but no one ever realised that he was trying to be funny and in his time had put off many an eager purchaser.

  His lack of success over the years had taken its toll. Now the only jokes were sarcastic ones and he had grown tired of the business and wished he had done something else with his life.

  While he fumbled with the large bunch of keys, he took time to consider his latest potential client. The man was standing some distance away from the property, no doubt admiring its grandeur. His clothes left a lot to be desired but, from the few brief words they had exchanged he was obviously well-educated. He must have a lot of money too, to be so interested in this property, for only the very wealthy could possibly hope to afford it. Mr Parks ignored the sense of uneasiness that he felt—how he hated going into this house.

  "Here we are," he grinned, flourishing the correct set of keys, "I'll have the door open in a jiffy, Mr Crozier."

  Nathaniel was too busy surveying the grand building to answer. It was one of the oldest properties in Whitby, some parts of it dated back to the tenth century and perhaps further still. Over the ages it had been extended and embellished; the chimneys were Elizabethan, as were the latticed windows, but in other parts you could glimpse Georgian craftsmanship and Victorian heavy-handedness.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" said the estate agent. "Yes, we're very pleased to have this one on our books. Been in the Banbury-Scott family for—ooh, many years this has. A real showpiece it was. Do you know, architects and historians came from all over the country just to have a look at it? Unusual for such a treasure to be in private hands really, you'd have thought the National Trust would have snapped it up but they don't seem interested." The large oak door opened and he waved Nathaniel from the lawn. "Now, you do understand about the damage?" he asked.

  "Your partner told me the last owner made some structural alterations."

  The smile froze on Mr Parks's face. He hated it when Christopher Olive dropped him in it. "Actually," he explained slowly, "there's a little more to it than that. Now, don't misunderstand me, the damage is only superficial. There's nothing in here that can't be repaired." He sailed indoors, hoping the worst areas were still covered by dust sheets. The hallway wasn't too bad, though of course the panelling still had horrendous rents in it—why hadn't they hung up a few pictures as he had suggested?

  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 sh
ed? 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.