by Robin Jarvis
Prudence pulled herself together. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘Not like me at all, but for a moment I could have sworn – Never mind, it was nothing.’
‘Wonderful!’ Mrs Banbury-Scott declared, with her mouth full of truffles and coffee creams. ‘These are sublime.’
Another painful hour crawled by. Mrs Banbury-Scott hogged the chocolates and wolfed them all but Rowena did not seem to mind. Miss Boston was bored and stared dismally out of the window. Rowena lounged on the chair arm, laughing at all the fat woman’s feeble jokes. Edith Wethers watched her pathetically, like a dog waiting for scraps to be thrown its way.
Prudence, meanwhile, scrutinised Mrs Cooper through half-closed eyes, as though she were trying to see what the woman might have looked like twenty or thirty years ago.
Finally Miss Boston decided it was time for her to return home and see to the children’s tea. She rattled her cup impatiently on to its saucer and said to her hostess, ‘A most enlightening afternoon. So glad to have met you, but I really must get back and see to Jennet and Benjamin.’
Rowena looked at her blankly for a moment as if she had forgotten she was ever there. ‘Must do this again, Alison,’ she said, swinging her legs off the chair arm and stretching.
‘Don’t bother to see me out,’ Miss Boston said, ignoring the mistake and taking her things down from the coat-stand.
At that moment Prudence Joyster rose to leave also. ‘Yes, a very . . . interesting time,’ she muttered distractedly. ‘Are you coming too, Tilly?’
Miss Droon thanked Rowena for the loan of the book and made her farewells.
‘But Dora, dearest,’ cried Rowena to the Buddha-like figure which dwarfed the sofa, ‘say you’ll stay. Don’t abandon me as well, promise you’ll stay just an eensey teensy bit longer.’ Mrs Banbury-Scott agreed amiably.
Miss Wethers would have stayed too if Rowena had not suddenly said to her, ‘Darling Edie, how nice – do come again.’ So the postmistress reluctantly put her coat on as well.
Rowena padded out to the landing after the four departing ladies. Miss Boston looked up at the hole in the ceiling which led to the attic whilst the others made their way downstairs.
‘Must get that seen to,’ Rowena said quickly, following her gaze. ‘Afraid my little home is nowhere near as nice as Dora’s.’
‘Strange,’ murmured Miss Boston, her eyes still fixed upwards, ‘thought I saw a movement up there. Have you got bats?’
The change in Rowena was immediate and startling. The smile vanished from her face and she almost snarled at the old woman. Quickly, though, she regained her composure, yet her voice was more false than before. ‘Don’t alarm me so, Alison dear,’ she cried with a thin, harsh laugh. ‘I shouldn’t get a wink of sleep if I thought that.’
Miss Boston uttered a last farewell and turned to go down the stairs. That was most interesting, she thought to herself. I wonder what she has up there she doesn’t want anyone to know about? Very suspicious indeed.
In the lane she walked alongside Mrs Joyster. ‘Well, Prudence,’ she said, arching her brows, ‘what did you make of that?’
‘I don’t like it, Alice,’ her friend whispered, so that Miss Wethers could not hear. ‘There’s something decidedly wrong about that woman. I don’t know what it is but . . . No, it’s gone again.’
Aunt Alice pursed her lips in concentration. ‘Curious,’ she observed softly, ‘how Mrs Cooper likes to give the impression that she is a stupid creature. All those ridiculous affectations – she called you “Prudy”, for heaven’s sake. Nobody talks like that – most bizarre and perplexing. And yet for all this, or perhaps in spite of it, I believe that she is a very clever woman. Was it all an act, I wonder? But if so, then for whose benefit? She must have something to hide. I think that is a distinct possibility. Do you know anything about her husband – is he dead or are they separated?’
Prudence brought herself to a standstill and clasped her handbag to her chest. ‘Husband!’ she repeated. ‘Of course, the husband!’ Her face clouded over and she became very troubled indeed.
‘Whatever is it?’ inquired Miss Boston.
‘I can’t say,’ Prudence replied. ‘I’m not certain yet, but . . . Well, it just won’t do if I am right about this.’
Prudence Joyster headed for home. She lived in one of the houses behind the railway station on the West Cliff. It had belonged to her late husband’s sister, who had left it to them in her will. A perfect place to retire to, although it had taken some time to get used to the bracing sea air after the hot winds of Kenya.
She turned the key in the front door and marched past the spears and shields made of stretched zebra hide which decorated her hallway. Into the dark study she strode and cast her handbag aside fretfully. Still wearing her coat, she knelt by a panel of shelves and ran her fingers along the spines of the books. She knew it had to be there; this was the one thing of her husband’s she had made a point of keeping.
‘Ah!’ Prudence grunted. ‘There you are.’ She eased out a leather-bound book and turned to the first page.
‘Diary of Major Howard Joyster – 1959 to 1967,’ she read quietly to herself. Prudence held her hand in front of her face, momentarily breathless. It had been a long time since she had dared to open this. It was enough just to know its reassuring presence was there on the shelf – a comforting relic of their blissful time in Africa.
‘The hours you spent writing this, dear,’ she said aloud to the spirit of her husband which she felt sure was always with her. Page after page of well-ordered, disciplined handwriting flicked beneath her searching fingers. Oh, if she could only remember the correct year.
The time wore on and outside, the light failed. Prudence rubbed her eyes as they strained in the gloom and when she looked at the clock was startled to discover it had turned nine.
The diary brought it all flooding back. Although she had meant to skim through it to find the page she wanted, odd paragraphs or just sentences seemed to leap out at her and she would end up reading the whole passage. All those memories, places and people she had not thought of for many years.
With the study lamp switched on, she continued. Days long gone unfolded before her; she almost felt the sun burn the nape of her neck and heard in the far away of her mind the rumble of the jeep as it bounced over the hot red earth and the loud buzz of the crickets in the evening. And then the diary yielded its secret at last.
Monday, 12 July. Came across old Natty Pelridge this afternoon – chap who left the regiment to go native. Tells me the Masai are uneasy and could I do anything about it. Seems that couple who were chased out of Nairobi have started up again. Drove to the Masai village with Pru but only saw the wife. Nasty piece of work, that, and mouth like a sewer – damn near struck the blasted woman. If I believed just half of what people say about them I would have brought her in there and then. Don’t know why the Masai haven’t chased her and her God-awful husband out already but Natty tells me they’re too scared of them. Can’t understand it – just hope I’ve warned them off. Came back and there’s more of this dratted paperwork to do. The job isn’t what it was . . .
Thursday, 15 July. Bad news. Middle of the night, Natty comes over, white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. Never seen him like that before and it put the wind up me. Terrible business at the village, he tells me, after I give him some brandy. That ruddy couple have got half the Masai involved in some foul ceremony. Seems those stories were true after all. Drove over with a small show of force but by the time we arrived it was all over. Never heard such a commotion and the wails of the women is a sound I shan’t ever forget. Glad I never brought Pru this time. Why the villagers allowed it is a damn mystery, can’t get any sense out of them. They keep talking about a big dog or something – scared to death they looked, too. I’ll have to start a full investigation but it looks like the birds have flown. Not a sign of that hellish pair. They won’t get far, though; I’ll get a message to the neighbouring commissioners. Nathan and Rosly
n Crosier deserve to hang for this.
Mrs Joyster laid the book on her knee, feeling sick. Roslyn Crosier – that young, evil woman she had met all those years ago – was none other than Rowena Cooper!
An angry look crossed Prudence Joyster’s face; she thought of what they had done and her hands trembled with fury. Slamming the diary on the floor, she stormed out of her house.
Her intention had been to go to the police station, which was not far away, but as she strode down Windsor Terrace, the emotion which was seething inside her took charge. Past the police station marched Mrs Joyster, up the New Quay Road and over the bridge to the East Cliff. The pubs were just closing as she hurried up Church Street to the hundred and ninety-nine steps. Grimly she began to climb. Her face was like thunder and she felt ready to burst.
A mist was coming in off the sea, drifting over the churchyard and shrouding the lamps, softening the light which lit her way up the stone stairs. Finally she reached the top and purposefully made for The Hawes.
There were no lights on in the ugly house; for a second it seemed to shimmer and the renovations disappeared. Tangled weeds overran the garden once more, the front window was boarded up and a smell of damp and decay greeted Mrs Joyster as she pushed the rusted gate open. Then, suddenly it was back to normal. It was as if she had caught the house off-guard momentarily. The window displayed its red and gold letters and the lawn was neat again.
Prudence took no notice. It would take more than night-time imaginings to cool her temper. She went briskly to the kitchen door and hammered violently on it. A light snapped on upstairs and she heard footsteps coming down the hall.
‘Prudence!’ exclaimed a surprised Mrs Cooper. ‘What can I do for you? I was just about to go to bed.’
‘You can stop pretending!’ snapped Mrs Joyster furiously. ‘I know who you are – Roslyn!’
Mrs Cooper’s face froze. ‘Rowena,’ she corrected coldly.
‘Don’t bother denying it,’ spat Mrs Joyster. ‘I knew there was something – you and that devil of a husband, wherever he is.’ Her pale-blue eyes were like two frosty diamonds that glinted and shone in the darkness.
Rowena ground her teeth together and an unpleasant sneer curled her mouth. She realised it was useless to deny anything now. ‘I thought you might have forgotten,’ she said. Her voice was totally different from that of the person she had been that afternoon. It had a cruel, malicious edge, harder than steel and more bitter than death.
‘Forgotten!’ blazed Mrs Joyster. ‘How could I forget what you and your husband did! I don’t know how you live with yourself, you evil creature!’
Rowena smiled wickedly and her teeth gleamed. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked with calculating calm. ‘Have you called the police?’
Prudence glared back at the woman. ‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘but I shall and don’t think you can escape this time.’
The smile on Rowena’s face widened into a harsh, menacing grin. ‘You had better do your duty like a good citizen should,’ she growled as her lips pulled back even further.
Mrs Joyster pointed a steady, assured finger at her. It would take more than that to frightern her. ‘I’ll wipe that smile off your face, you remorseless – abomination!’ she cried defiantly. She whirled round and her sensible shoes rang over the path as she left.
Framed in the doorway, Rowena heard the older woman’s footsteps disappear into the mist. She threw back her head and let loose a horrible laugh. ‘Run, Prudence!’ she called wildly. ‘Hurry home – if you can.’
Mrs Joyster heard the muffled shrieks seeping through the fog. ‘Woman’s unhinged,’ she told herself, but then she would have to be.
The ruins of the abbey rose out of the mist to her left as she approached the churchyard. The gravestones were like little islands poking up from a smoky sea as she strode by. The police station was her goal now. It would probably take some time to convince them but fortunately she was well-respected in the town.
The hundred and ninety-nine steps trailed into darkness below as the fog swirled about her ankles and concealed the streets of Whitby. She might have been standing on the roof of the world, for all she could see. A shudder ran down her spine and she glanced back nervously.
‘Pull yourself together,’ she scolded herself. It was unlike her to be afraid of the dark; she was far too practical for such ridiculous fancies. Resolutely, she began the long descent. It was tough going, for the fog lay thickly over the steps and made it impossible to see them. With one hand she gripped the rail tightly and covered her throat with the other.
The night was cold yet Mrs Joyster’s forehead dripped with perspiration. She felt afraid, someone was watching her. It was as if a sharp blade was being pushed between her shoulders. Countless times she looked round nervously up to the top of the steps, to try and catch a glimpse of whoever it was. But there was always nothing there, which seemed to make it worse, somehow.
Her heart pounded in her breast as she neared the halfway point. It thumped like the drums she had heard in Kenya, tribal beats that echoed into the night. Prudence was breathing hard; the blood in her temples pumped in time to the drums and her footsteps faltered.
There it was again, that uncomfortable feeling at her spine. With an overwhelming sense of dread, she turned and looked back once more.
‘No!’ she cried in terror. ‘No!’
But it was too late. There on the topmost step was the most horrifying sight she had ever witnessed. Under the dim glow of the lamp, she saw an immense hound. It was as large as a calf, blacker than midnight, and its red, fiery eyes burned into her.
Prudence screamed as she tore down the steps as fast as she could. With a blood-freezing growl, the monstrous hound bounded after her. Steaming breath issued from its huge nostrils and its mighty jaws slavered viciously.
‘Help! Help!’ Prudence shouted at the top of her voice. But there was no one to hear her.
The demon dog took the steps five at a time and bore unnerringly down upon the petrified woman. Prudence felt its hot breath on the back of her legs. She spun round to face it. The infernal eyes crackled and blasted towards her.
‘Nooooo!’ she wailed, raising her arms before her face as the beast snarled and prepared to spring.
Its muscular shoulders tensed, then the creature launched itself straight at her. With a last, piteous cry, Prudence Joyster fell back into the fog.
VII
THE FIGURE ON THE CLIFF
Miss Boston sat down and mechanically sipped the hot sweet tea Jennet had made for her. ‘Poor Prudence,’ she said shakily.
The body of Mrs Joyster had been discovered early that morning. She had evidently lost her footing whilst descending the steps in the fog the previous night; at least that is what the police thought. There was nothing to suggest otherwise, and Doctor Adams wrote ‘accidental death’ on the certificate.
Aunt Alice saw the ambulance drive down Church Street on her pre-breakfast walk and heard the terrible news from a burly police sergeant.
There was a great deal to be done. Miss Boston telephoned the only relative Mrs Joyster had, a nephew in Halifax, and assured him that she would look after everything until his arrival. Then she went round to the dead woman’s house. Some time ago, Prudence had given her a spare key and she used this now to let herself in. Oddly enough, the police had been unable to find any keys on Mrs Joyster’s person.
Miss Boston found the house just as her friend had left it the night before. The lamp in the study was still on and the old diary lay sprawled on the floor. ‘Curious,’ the old lady murmured as she examined the book. ‘I wonder what Prudence was doing reading this – it used to upset her so.’ She recalled how strange Mrs Joyster had been yesterday when they parted. There had been something troubling her – something to do with Rowena Cooper. If only she had said more at the time. A nasty suspicion was forming in Miss Boston’s mind. The steps were on the way to Mrs Cooper’s house; perhaps Prudence had paid a second visit to the dreadfu
l woman last night. She stuffed the diary into her capacious handbag to read later, deciding there had to be some sort of clue in there. One thing was certain – Prudence Joyster had not died in any accident.
‘I don’t care what the police say,’ Aunt Alice told Jennet when she was sitting in her own kitchen once more, ‘Prudence was far too sensible to go out in a fog for no good cause – she was never one for solitary walks.’
‘What do you think she was doing, then?’ the girl asked.
Aunt Alice flattened her chins against her chest and muttered mysteriously, ‘Confrontations.’
Jennet looked puzzled.
‘Prudence could never bottle things up,’ Miss Boston explained. ‘She would always tell you exactly what she thought. I can still hear her barking voice . . . unbelievable to think that it has been silenced forever. She was a good friend to me, you know.’ Jennet held out her hand and the old lady took it thankfully. ‘I’m so very glad you and Benjamin are here,’ she said.
The rest of the day was spent visiting the rest of the ladies’ circle to share with them the grief and sense of loss. Edith Wethers was beside herself and had to take the day off work. Miss Droon was sitting with her, handing out the tissues. She was so upset she never mentioned Eurydice or her offspring at all. It was an unpleasant time, but all appreciated one another’s company.
‘I think I had better go round to Dora’s now,’ said Miss Boston, swinging her cloak over her shoulders. ‘I don’t know why she isn’t here.’
The other ladies, one whiskered, one snivelling, feebly waved goodbye.
The comical figure of Miss Boston on her rickety old bicycle rode to the outskirts of the town.
Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house was a solid, grand building. Nobody knew exactly how old it was, although architects had squabbled for years over its probable age. The grey stones were mottled with moss and lichen and the west-facing walls had been totally claimed by ivy.