The Whitby Witches 1 - The Whitby Witches (15 page)

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.'

'Actually, no,' he replied. 'The locks weren't forced and the alarm never went off—it's as if the thieves had a set of keys to the place.'

'Oh, but they did,' the old lady said mildly, and with that she left.

That afternoon Miss Boston was sitting in Tilly Droon's little sitting room, a cup of tea in one hand and a half-eaten Bourbon in the other.

It was a poky little place, cluttered further by the sleeping cats which seemed to cover every available surface. There were tabbies on the chair arms, tortoiseshells underfoot, and a fat marmalade specimen squatting before the fire, glaring at two black felines who were getting dangerously close. Everything was covered in hair; the carpet had long since disappeared beneath the sea of countless moults. There was precious little left of the chair backs, either, which had been used as claw sharpeners for years.

The worst aspect of Miss Droon's house, though, was the smell. She always swore blind that she could not detect any odour, but this opinion was challenged by her lack of human visitors. Only Aunt Alice and Mrs Joyster had ever ventured in more than once. Mrs Banbury-Scott did promise to return one day but there was always some excuse; Miss Wethers was more honest about it and refused even to peep through the letterbox.

'Move over, Chunky,' Tilly told the marmalade cat. 'Let Inky and Jet feel the fire.' She eased herself into a tatty armchair and slurped her tea. 'That Cooper woman,' Tilly said, resuming the story she had begun before pottering into the kitchen to make the tea.

'Oh yes,' Miss Boston murmured, with interest.

'Well, you should have seen her face when I went over this morning to find Eurydice. Never seen anyone so put out and unpleasant.' She chewed on a rather stale Bourbon, before continuing. 'She wouldn't let me go and find her myself, but darted upstairs like a bullet. Anyway, five minutes later she brings Eurydice down and the poor dear was petrified. She didn't like the woman one little bit—terrible state she was in.'

'At least she's safe now, Tilly,' Miss Boston remarked. 'And what was this other news you dragged me in to hear?'

Miss Droon licked her moustache. 'Well, it was about lunchtime and I hadn't a tin of cat-food in the house, so I dashed out to the shop and who do you think I saw?'

'Haven't a clue.'

'Kenneth Grice!'

Miss Boston put her cup down. 'Dora's handyman—what is so curious about that, dear?'

'Well, he stopped me. Made a point of it, he did, crossed the road especially.'

'Really? How strange; he's such a rude, gruff man as a rule. What did he say?'

'Dora's not well. Told me Doctor Adams had been to see her that morning.'

Miss Boston shook her head. 'But she always has some illness, or thinks she has—she likes to be fussed over. Where's the news in that?'

'But that's just it, Alice. She isn't faking it this time, there really is something wrong with her.'

'Poor Dora. Whatever's the matter?'

'Grice said it was something to do with her heart, high blood pressure—not as strong as she was. He said the doctor was quite concerned.'

'Oh dear,' tutted Aunt Alice. 'We shall have to go round and cheer her up. She must be feeling very low.'

Tilly banged her fists on the chair arm in frustration and in doing so knocked a startled tabby to the floor. 'No, no, no,' she cried. 'That's the point, you see; that's why Grice came and spoke to me. He says Dora's not to have any visitors for a few days—doctor's orders. She needs complete rest. So she'd told him to tell us.' She leaned forward and lowered her voice. 'Thing is, though, Grice wasn't very happy because after telling me that, he said he was to go and fetch Mrs Cooper. Seems Dora wants to see
her
in spite of what the doctor said.'

'But that's outrageous,' said Miss Boston, flabbergasted. 'Do you mean to say that she can't see old friends like us but is quite capable of having visits from that Rowena person?'

'Exactly! Grice thought it was dreadful, too—never seen him look so awkward before.'

Miss Boston's chins wobbled in annoyance. 'I think we have been snubbed, Tilly dear,' she said. 'And I believe Dora will live to regret allowing that woman into her house.'

The baked potato was still too hot to touch. Jennet could feel the heat from it radiate through the lining of her coat. The girl had been thinking about the previous night all day long. She could not forget that tragic figure in white pouring out her grief in the churchyard. It had had a profound effect on Jennet. She knew what it was like to suffer and grieve, but at least she had Ben. The poor woman obviously had no one. She hoped the novice would return tonight. There had to be something she could do to help. The woman might not be so frightened this time.

The stone of the tomb slab was cold and she shifted uncomfortably. She had come armed against the pangs of hunger: in one pocket there was the baked potato and in the other, one of Aunt Alice's forks. It was dark now and only the pubs round the harbour seemed alive, all the tourists having deserted the streets for cosier entertainments. It was going to be a cold night; there was a musty, autumn scent in the air. Jennet shivered and decided it was time to eat.

Wisps of steam curled out of the potato as she broke its brown, papery skin with the old silver fork. It smelled delicious and she waited for a moment before digging in. It was still hot and Jennet had to suck in the cold night air to prevent her mouth being burned.

The sea lapped against the cliff face; all was calm and the waxing moon rode above the few dim clouds that reached over the horizon. Jennet finished the last fragments of baked potato and replaced the fork in her pocket. She felt better for that and was marvellously warm inside. It was ten o'clock and she was all alone in the graveyard.

A seabird flew overhead and was caught in the beams of the arc lights. Jennet watched it falter, then regain its balance. When she lowered her eyes, something white caught her attention.

There she was, the sister from the convent. Just as she had done the night before, the woman crossed the cemetery and stood by the wall, where she gazed out to sea.

Undetected, Jennet rose and began to walk over to her. She could see the woman's shoulders shaking with emotion as the miserable weeping began; the pitiful whimpers filled her ears.

Suddenly Jennet dropped to the ground—someone else was there. A figure dressed in black had emerged from the darkness, strode quickly over the graves and grabbed the novice by the wrist.

Jennet scrambled behind a headstone and waited. She was confused. What was happening? And why should she feel the need to hide? It was ridiculous; she wasn't doing anything wrong, yet she felt it would be safer if she were not observed.

A voice drifted over the tombs to her dark sanctuary. It was a wheedling, fawning voice but one that contained a hidden power which might erupt at any moment. For some reason, Jennet was afraid. The sound of that voice made her shudder; it was ugly and menacing. She wiped her forehead and plucked up enough courage to peer round the stone.

By the wall the white form of the novice was trying to pull away from the intruder. Her small, frightened face was screwed up in misery as she tugged to release her arm.

Jennet reared up a little higher, for she could not quite see the other person. A little more and there, dressed in black, with her short blonde hair gleaming under the moon, was Rowena Cooper. Jennet had never met the woman before but Aunt Alice had given her a perfect description. It could be no other.

The two women struggled with each other but Rowena was the stronger and she laughed triumphantly. 'You don't get away that easily, my little mule,' she sneered.