The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

by Robin Jarvis

  Ben squirmed and screwed his face up. Danny was no better than an animal.

  "Hur, hur," his tormentor chuckled, relishing the agony he was putting him through. "There's not much left of its innards, see—I can put my hand right up its ribcage and use it like a puppet." With his free hand he pinched his nose to produce a squeaky, nasal voice. "Ooh, Judy," he sang waving the cat in Ben's face, "that's the way to do it, that's the way to do it."

  He laughed, then wiped the blood on Ben's coat. "Does yer not like me puppet show?" he asked. "I thought you crets went in for that sort of thing. I'll have to come up with summat else to keep yer happy."

  "You're disgusting," Ben said angrily, "put it down."

  At that, all traces of humour left Danny. "Don't you talk to me like that!" he growled. "I'm gonna teach you some manners I am. Feel sorry for this rancid moggy does yer? Well here! You can have it!" With a shout, he swung the cat round and pushed it into Ben's face.

  The boy spluttered and tried to get free, shaking his head for the other to stop. But Danny was determined, he smeared the gory carcass all over Ben, then spat on him.

  "Hoy, you two!" came a stern protest. "What the 'ell do you think you're playin' at?"

  Danny glanced up. At the window of the house stood a gruff-looking man. The boy stuck his fingers up at him then hissed in Ben's ear. "This ain't over yet! Me an' my gang's gonna come after you. It won't be cat blood on yer then, but yer own!" With that he leapt over the wall and disappeared back into the park.

  The owner of the house had left the window and was hastening to the door. Ben wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stared miserably at what was left of Mokey.

  "Right!" roared the man, appearing from the doorway with a stick in his hand. "Where are the beggars? I'll learn 'em to trespass and cheek me."

  But the garden was empty and when he ran to the gate to glare down the street he could only see a duffle-coated figure hurrying towards the harbour. "Flamin' kids," he swore.

  ***

  Miss Wethers threw up her hands and let out such a scream that Eurydice's kittens dashed upstairs and refused to venture out from beneath Miss Boston's bed for two whole days. Eurydice herself gave the remains a curious sniff, then sauntered away in a huff with her tail in the air.

  "Take it away!" Edith squawked. "Get rid of it immediately! You horrid, dirty boy!"

  Ben closed the front door behind him. All the way home he was hoping that the postmistress would not be the one to let him in. Unfortunately however, she had. At once she saw the stains on his face and that he was trying to hide something under his coat. When she had insisted on seeing whatever it was, he had reluctantly opened the duffle and shown her the newspaper parcel concealed within. Then of course she had to know what was inside it—he had tried to warn her but too late—Miss Wethers had confiscated it and opened the thing for herself.

  Her shrieks were still shaking the plates on the draining-board in the kitchen when Ben knelt to pick the dead cat up again.

  "Don't touch it!" she screeched, running up and down the hall as though she had sat on a wasp's nest. "You wicked, wicked child! How could you? Throw it away—Aaaagghhh!" She leant against the wall to steady herself and the tissue came flying from her cardigan to cover her eyes. "I must sit down," she whimpered, "I can feel one of my faints coming on—ooh, Jennet, help me."

  Ben's sister was giving her brother deadly looks. How could he be so stupid? She shook her head at him then went to Miss Wethers' rescue. "Let me help you into a chair," she said taking hold of the spinster's arm. "I'll make you a strong cup of tea with lots of sugar in it."

  Edith gagged. "Couldn't keep it down," she refused. "Where did the boy come by such a filthy thing? I'll have to fumigate the carpet." At that she looked down at her own hands and remembered that she too had touched the grisly parcel. "Eeeee!" she cried and dashed to the sink where she took the nail-brush and scrubbed herself with disinfectant.

  "I found it," said Ben following them into the kitchen. "It's Mrs Rigby's, I couldn't leave it there could I?"

  "Don't you dare bring that abomination into this kitchen, young man!" declared Miss Wethers adamantly. "What did you think you were doing? Just you wait till I tell Alice. I knew I wouldn't be able to manage. 'Children are nothing more than little monsters,' that's what my mother used to tell me, 'never have anything to do with them, Edith' she said. All these years I listened to her and now look how right she was!"

  She ran into the hall, avoiding Ben as best she could then sped upstairs. "It's bath-time for you my lad!" she squeaked. "But goodness knows what I'm to do with your coat. I'll have to boil the thing and if it shrinks you've only yourself to blame."

  Alone with Jennet, Ben crossed to the back door. "Ben," she said tersely.

  "What?"

  "Are you mad? What's the matter with you? Are you so stupid? Chuck that dead cat in the bin outside and tell Miss Wethers you're sorry. Honestly Ben you're such a child at times!"

  The boy stared impassively at her. He did not want to mention his encounter with Danny Turner, she would only go and make matters worse again. "No," he said flatly, "I'm not going to put it in the bin—what would you think if someone did that to Eurydice or one of the kittens?"

  "I'm sure I wouldn't care," she replied, "what else can you do with a dead cat?"

  "I'm going to bury it in the garden," he told her pulling the door open. On the step he gave her one last, bitter look and added, "would you've cared if they'd put Mum and Dad in the bin too?"

  Jennet slammed the door and Ben took the body to the far side of the garden then went in search of Aunt Alice's trowel.

  6 - The Fall Of The Veil

  The sleek, black taxi barged through the heavy traffic, like an impatient giant beetle. Through amber lights it roared, taking corners at an astonishing speed. In the back, Miss Boston slid along the seat one more time and blamed herself for not taking the Underground. It had been a break-neck, nerve-rattling journey all the way from Kings Cross, anyone would think the cabbie was driving the getaway car from a bank robbery. No, she was doing the poor man a disservice—perhaps he had been an ambulance driver before taking up this present career. She ventured to open one eye and peered at the back of the man's head. He was thick-set and had a cauliflower ear—maybe her first suspicion had been correct after all.

  They raced over a zebra crossing, heedless of the people waiting on the pavement and Miss Boston covered her face with the hat that had been shaken off her head. "Ironic really," she told herself, "one of the reasons I decided to take a taxi was to see more of London." At that moment the cab hit a bump in the road, the old lady bounced off the seat and hit her head on the roof.

  That was too much. She tapped on the glass that separated her from the driver and shouted, "Excuse me, would you care to drive a little more carefully? I'm not enjoying this at all!"

  The cabbie shifted disagreeably and muttered something under his breath. "You wanna get there, missus, or don't yer?" he asked.

  "Most certainly," she replied, "but preferably in one piece."

  "Fifteen years I've been cabbin' it," he grumbled, "you out-of-townies come up 'ere for the day an' think you know it all. Just pipe down in the back an' lemme do my job."

  Miss Boston stuck out her chins at his insolence but there seemed little else she could say. It had been a tiring day, most of it had been spent cooped up in a crowded, stuffy train and she was in no mood for an argument. "Unpleasant fellow," she merely mumbled, and left it at that, turning her attention to the blurred scenes that whipped by outside the windows.

  From the little she had seen, London had changed dramatically since she had last visited—why that was over ten years ago now. There were many new buildings to admire, and criticise, even the shops had undergone startling transformations and on every side sheer towers of sparkling glass reached into the sky. The bustling city was a far cry from her more tranquil home.

  "Such a mad dash everyone seems to be in," she observed. "Oh my!
"

  A car had pulled out in front of the taxi without warning and the cabbie pounded the horn whilst adding his own colourfully verbal abuse.

  Miss Boston shook her head. How did people manage to live in this frantic place? She suddenly felt very small and insignificant compared to the sprawling old city that had engulfed her. Back in Whitby everyone knew her but here she was nobody.

  It was a humbling thought and before she knew what she was doing she was feeling sorry for herself.

  "Alice Boston!" she reprimanded quickly. "What do you think you're doing? This isn't like you—pull yourself together, woman. Remember why you're here and save your sympathy for those who really need it!" She tutted into her hat then held her head high. She wasn't going to let the capital city intimidate her!

  At last, they arrived in Kensington and the taxi shot past the great museums before turning off into one of the quieter streets. With a jolt the vehicle skidded to a standstill and Miss Boston's hat sailed out of the window.

  "'Ere we are, missus," the cabbie announced, "safe and sound."

  The old lady gave him a frosty look and rummaged in her purse for the fare. "Outrageously expensive!" she remarked handing the money over.

  "What—no tip?" the man protested.

  "I'll give you a tip," she said brusquely, "learn some manners!"

  "Stuff off."

  Miss Boston alighted from the taxi with as much dignity as she could muster and dragged out her luggage. As soon as she shut the door the cab screeched and streaked away. The old lady put her case on the pavement and waddled into the road to retrieve her hat before she looked about her.

  It was an impressive street. All the buildings were Georgian town houses, the kind that only embassies or film stars could now afford. They all had four floors, with two entrances at the front, the main doorway flanked by stout pillars and a flight of steps leading to the servants' quarters below.

  Miss Boston pursed her lips and cast an eye over herself. Her clothes looked a wreck and she felt far too shabby to enter one of these grand houses. She spent a few moments smoothing the creases from her skirt and perching the hat back on her woolly head. Then, pulling her cape about her, she ascended the steps to number eleven and rang the bell.

  The minutes ticked by, but nobody came to the door. Miss Boston pressed the bell again—perhaps there was no one at home, maybe she had come too late. She staggered down the steps and glanced up at the windows. The curtains were not drawn so her fears ebbed a little. Miss Boston decided to ring once more.

  This time she kept her finger on the button for a full five minutes until she released it. "Most odd," she said aloud, "where is everybody?" She glared accusingly at the door as though it were to blame, then spied the letter-box. Cautiously, the old lady squinted up and down the street to make certain no one was watching before crouching down to lift the letter flap. Bringing her eyes close to the slot, Miss Boston peered inside.

  "How peculiar," she muttered, "there appears to be something in the way, I can't see a blessed thing, it's all dark—no, why it seems to be material..."

  Her voice failed her as the grey material moved behind the door, she saw a row of shiny black buttons, a white collar and then another eye loomed through the letter-box at her.

  Miss Boston blinked and the other eye did the same before disappearing. Suddenly the door was pulled open and a superior voice demanded, "What have we here?"

  The old lady looked up sheepishly. A tall, grey-haired man was studying her with the utmost solemnity. He was about fifty years old, possessing a long sharp nose which he could expertly look down. His eyes held no humour and the lids drooped over them in a weary, melancholy fashion. The right side of his thin mouth twitched as he waited for an explanation and his disparaging stare made Miss Boston feel about ten years old.

  "I... I did ring," she stammered, rising to her feet, "but there was no answer, so I..."

  The man pulled a sour expression. "Whatever it is we don't want any," he said curtly. "Good day."

  Miss Boston reached out her foot as he swung the door to. "I beg your pardon!" she declared, overcoming her embarrassment, "But I am Alice Boston. Patricia Gunning has invited me to stay for a few days."

  The man regarded her through the half-closed door but made no attempt to let her in. "Mrs Gunning sees no one," he said.

  "Well she'll see me!" she cried. "Stand aside and let me in!" Miss Boston gave the door a shove but he continued to hold it firm.

  "The mistress is too ill for visitors," she was told, "if you leave your card I will see that it is brought to her attention."

  Miss Boston was flabbergasted and was about to give the man a good telling off when he turned as though someone had spoken to him from inside the house. "Let her in?" he asked in surprise. "This is all very irregular."

  Miss Boston craned her neck and tried to peer round him. "Patricia?" she called. "Is that you?"

  The man gave her a reproachful look then opened the door. Miss Boston stuck out her tongue at him and pushed past.

  The first thing that struck her as she walked inside was not the impressive oak staircase that swept up to the first floor landing, nor the gleaming marble beneath her feet, nor the sumptuously expensive oil paintings that hung on the walls all around—no, what Miss Boston noticed first was the piercing chill.

  Shivering, she wrapped the cloak about her, all the time looking for the person the man had been speaking to. There she was. Descending the stairs was a hefty, bushy-browed woman. Miss Boston's shoulders sagged—this was not her old friend.

  The stranger was dressed in a pristine white uniform, her dark, wiry hair scraped back into a bun. She was an uncommonly ugly woman; her face was ill-proportioned and square with a large jutting chin, when she spoke her words were clipped and precise like a sergeant-major's, but the eyes which fixed immovably upon Miss Boston were small and pig-like. Her bearing was masculine—and her frame one that any rugby player would have been proud of. Down the crimson-carpeted stairs she stomped, her heavy footfalls thumping a jarring rhythm throughout the house.

  "Welcome, Miss Boston," she barked in a baritone. "We've been expecting you."

  "I haven't," remarked the man acidly.

  The woman ignored him and shook the old lady's hand vigorously in her own which were large and strong. "I am Judith Deacon," she said, "Mrs Gunning's private nurse."

  Miss Boston flexed her squashed fingers thinking that there was more starch in this woman than in her uniform. "How is Patricia?" she asked.

  Miss Deacon's face grew serious. "I'll be frank with you," she told her, "Mrs Gunning is most unwell, I'm afraid there isn't much hope for her. She is terribly weak and grows worse with each passing day. I confess that I tried to dissuade her from inviting you—I don't approve of anything that over-excites her."

  "Most commendable," Miss Boston put in, "but I'm not exactly sure what ails her. The letter she sent was very brief and vague, could you enlighten me?"

  The nurse nodded, stiffly clasping her spade-like hands in front of her. "My patient has a very delicate condition which needs constant attention. It began when she caught a bad cold and progressed from there—she is quite old you know."

  Miss Boston reared her head. Patricia Gunning was nearly ten years younger than herself and had always shared the same vigorous health that she enjoyed. "Do you think I could see her now?" she asked politely.

  Judith examined her watch and nodded, "Briefly," she said. "Since Mrs Gunning employed me I have kept her to a strict routine—I won't undermine all my efforts for anyone. You can have ten minutes with her, that's all." She spun on her heel and addressed the man who had opened the door. "Rook, take Miss Boston's luggage up to the guest-room on the second floor, it has been made ready for her."

  The man raised his eyes to the high, decorated ceiling and breathed loudly through his long nose, rustling the bristling hairs which sprouted from it. "Very well," he said, greatly vexed at the inconvenience.

  Miss Boston
watched with amusement as he went sulkily out to fetch her case. "Don't mind Rook," the nurse told her, "he's only a butler with an inflated opinion of himself."

  "Indeed?" said the old lady, privately thinking exactly the same about her.

  "Yes," Judith continued, "when I took over there was a full complement of staff here but I ask you, with only one person to look after it was a scandal. Bone idle most of them were, I soon sent them packing. Rook I kept on to attend to those matters my work made impossible for me to see to myself."

  "What do you mean you took over?" asked Miss Boston in surprise.

  Miss Deacon strode to the foot of the majestic staircase and placed a hand on the carved oak banister, striking the pose of "Lady of the House". If she had not looked so ridiculous it would have been alarming. "I have complete authority here," she said, "I think I should make that perfectly clear straight away—I wouldn't have taken the position otherwise."

  "But what about Patricia?"

  The nurse managed an ugly smile, revealing her irregular tombstone-like teeth. "Oh she isn't well enough for that sort of responsibility. It is my duty to see to the smooth running of the household. No others are required here, we manage extraordinarily well on our own. Now, if you please." She began to climb the stairs and gestured for Miss Boston to follow.

  Miss Boston did as she was bid. This was not at all the kind of reception she had been expecting. Were all private nurses as domineering and coldly efficient as this specimen, she found herself wondering.

  Up the staircase they went and when they came to the landing Judith marched up to a dark panelled door. She waited for Miss Boston to catch up with her before turning the handle and entering.

  It was the most unusual sickroom Miss Boston had ever seen. To get in she had to duck beneath a swinging bunch of dried herbs that had been pinned to the lintel. This was only the first of many, for countless arrangements of withered leaves and flowers covered the walls and hung from the ceiling. A pungent, aromatic scent laced the air, irritating the back of Miss Boston's throat and stinging her eyes till they watered. Strange pictures and symbols filled the spaces in between the dead plants, designs taken from old magical works, charms of protection and healing. Miss Boston recognised them instantly but thought nothing of it—it was no surprise to her that Patricia Gunning was a white witch, but then she always did have a tendency to go over the top with it all.