by Robin Jarvis
Dusk had crept up over Whitby. There was no one about now; all had gone in search of food. In the town the cafés were alive with light and the happy chatter of contented families but the streets were deserted.
Tilly was nearly at the bottom of the steps. She took the last three in one jump and set off down Church Street. Her bristled face showed her fear and her footsteps were quick and nervous. Miss Boston’s cottage was not far, just through this opening and—Miss Droon halted, turned her head and listened. What was that?
Above the heaving of her breath a plaintive whine echoed down the street. It was a high-pitched wail, like that of a small child. Tilly uttered a cry of pity—that was no child, it was the sound of a cat in pain.
The pitiful mewling continued and Tilly’s heart ached as she recognised the voice. It was Eurydice! Somewhere her beloved Eurydice was suffering. It was as if someone was deliberately torturing the poor animal.
‘Eurydice, darling!’ she shouted. ‘Stay where you are. Mummy’s coming.’
Forgetting everything else. Miss Droon hurried up the road, tormented by the dismal shrieks which beckoned her on. Tears sprang to her eyes. How could anyone hurt a small creature like this? It was horrible to hear.
‘Leave her alone!’ she bawled as the cries became more urgent. ‘Stop it, you bully, she hasn’t done any harm.’
The cat was almost squealing now. Miss Droon could not bear it; she hurried along into Henrietta Street with her hands over her ears.
On she sped towards that hideous screech, down the narrow street which ended at the cliff edge. The unnatural, piercing sound drew her forward; it had reached inside and taken command of her reason. Nothing could hold her back from finding Eurydice, not even the wire fence which prevented the unwary tourist from straying too near to the sheer drop.
Tilly pulled herself through this obstacle. She was sobbing with anguish for her loved one and did not feel the wire rake through her hair and scratch her legs. Only the life of Eurydice was important—she simply had to save her.
The wind was strong on the cliff edge, buffeting against her, and Miss Droon swayed back unsteadily. Desperately, she cast around for any sign of her cat but could only hear the crashing of the sea far below and the rushing of the wind in the grass. The crying had stopped.
‘Eurydice?’ she called. ‘Eurydice?’ But there was no answer. She wept into her sleeve. The madness that had spurred her to this deadly spot was ebbing away now and she glanced round miserably. There was nowhere for the cat to hide: the grass was short and there was no cover anywhere.
Miss Droon was puzzled. Why had the noise stopped? There was no sign of either Eurydice or her torturer. An awful thought crept up on her: what if the poor creature had fallen? In her panic Eurydice might have fled away from her attacker and not realised until too late that…
It was too terrible to contemplate. Anything that fell from that dizzy height would be smashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below. Tilly felt ill and the strength left her legs. Her sobs choked her as she plucked up enough courage to peer over the edge, preparing herself for the distant sight of a small, furry body floating on the water.
The ground was treacherously soft and spongy as she stepped up to the precipitous brink. The wind sang in her ears and tried to drag her back, but she had to know. Standing on the very edge of the cliff. Miss Droon stared down.
‘No!’ she screamed.
Directly beneath her, clinging to the vertical cliff face like a spider on a wall, was Rowena Cooper. It was impossible for anyone to do that. No human being could hold on so effortlessly; so casually. Tilly stared at her, stricken with horror.
Rowena threw back her head and looked up. ‘Miaow,’ she cried mockingly, and the voice was identical to Eurydice’s.
Tilly whimpered as she tried to understand. Eurydice must still be safe at home. Rowena had impersonated her to lure Miss Droon to the cliff edge—but why?
Even as the question formed in her mind, Rowena scuttled further up the sheer cliff and stretched out a claw-like hand. It grabbed Tilly’s ankle and gripped it fiercely.
‘No, no!’ she cried in terror.
Rowena laughed into the wind. ‘Fool!’ she scorned and Tilly knew she was finished as the evil, derisive laughter cut through her.
‘Look what the cat’s dragged in!’ cackled Rowena as she pulled viciously.
Tilly’s leg was snatched from under her and, with a last shriek, she toppled over the cliff and plummeted downwards. Far below the pounding waves surged and crashed, but the air above was filled with raucous, uncontrollable laughter.
11 - The Half Child
Rachel Turner anxiously surveyed the morning room; it was the best she could do until the workmen arrived. The house of the late Mrs Banbury-Scott was still in chaos, for the damage wrought by those mysterious burglars had not yet been repaired. The large holes in the floor had been temporarily covered with boards by Grice, the scarred oak panelling had been cunningly hidden by pictures and tapestries, but the beautiful old fireplace was ruined. It had taken an awful lot of elbow grease to make the place even remotely habitable again.
The terms of Mrs Banbury-Scott’s will were plain: Rowena Cooper inherited not only the house, but also the servants if she desired. So far she had shown no sign of wishing otherwise.
Rachel patted a cushion into place and went to join Mrs Rigpath in the hallway. Ayleen Rigpath was a stout woman who bustled about her kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and her face covered in flour or jam, or whatever it was she happened to be making. For twelve years now she had cooked for Mrs Banbury-Scott and she was not happy at the prospect of a new employer. She was not one to try out fancy new recipes; her menus had stayed the same for as long as she had been there and if this Mrs Cooper didn’t like them, well, she would have to find someone else.
‘I can’t do no more in there,’ Rachel said.
Mrs Rigpath sniffed impatiently. ‘Grice has been gone a while, he ought to be back with her by now. How much longer do we have to stand here?’
Rachel sighed. ‘I’ve been dreadin’ this, you know. I’m not sure if I like that Mrs Cooper—don’t know what the Madam saw in her.’
Ayleen puffed out her chest and folded her arms. ‘I’ll give her three weeks,’ she said dryly. ‘If she hasn’t shaped up by then. I’m off. I’ll have enough to retire on, what with the money I was left.’
‘You’re lucky—I didn’t get very much.’
‘I’m not lucky,’ Mrs Rigpath replied bitterly. ‘Just look at me: fifty-three years old, no husband, no kiddies and no home to call me own—some luck that is.’
Rachel had often wondered how someone with Mrs Rigpath’s talent for making delicious desserts could be so utterly sour for most of the time. Such questions had to wait, however, for at that moment both women heard the sound of tyres on gravel.
‘About time,’ grumbled Ayleen. ‘S’pose we’d better get on with it.’
The Bentley pulled up outside the great, grey house and Grice dutifully stepped out to open the door for its passenger. Rowena Cooper wore one of the widest smiles he had ever seen. She had been grinning on the back seat all the way from The Hawes.
‘Thank you,’ the woman murmured as he helped her out. For a moment Rowena stood quite still. At last, she thought to herself, this ugly pile of stone belongs to me. With a satisfied smirk, she crossed to the front door, where her new staff were waiting to greet her.
‘Welcome, Mrs Cooper,’ began Rachel cheerfully. Rowena eyed both her and Mrs Rigpath icily. ‘I wish to see you all in the morning room in ten minutes’ time,’ she said. And with that she pushed past them and strode down the hall.
Mrs Rigpath stared after her, open-mouthed. ‘Well, I never did!’ she exclaimed. ‘I might not give her those three weeks’ trial after all.’
‘Expect she’s nervous,’ said Rachel. ‘Probably never had staff before.’
Grice slammed the door of the Bentley and came indoors. ‘Bad accident down by the c
liffs,’ he told them. ‘Ambulance and police were there.’
‘What happened?’ asked Rachel.
‘That Miss Droon—found her body this mornin’, they did. Seems she fell off the edge some time last night.’
‘Poor soul,’ said Rachel sadly. ‘She was dotty about them cats of hers, wasn’t she? I wonder what’ll happen to them now.’
Mrs Rigpath, however, was considering a different mystery. ‘Didn’t Mrs Cooper bring no luggage, then?’ she asked curiously. ‘Is she not stopping tonight?’
In the morning room, Rowena positioned herself in front of the covered fireplace and glanced round. ‘Somewhere here,’ she whispered. ‘I know it has to be here! I don’t care if I have to demolish this vile place and sift through the rubble, I must have it. Somewhere in this disgusting relic, concealed for centuries from prying eyes—’
‘Excuse me, Mrs Cooper.’
Rowena turned round, startled. ‘Yes?’
Rachel smiled at her from the doorway. ‘Ten minutes have gone. Madam.’
Rowena nodded coldly. ‘Come in.’
The three staff filed into the morning room.
Rowena began loftily, ‘What I have to say is merely this: I’m afraid that I have decided against keeping you all on. Now, I know that you were all provided for in dear Dora’s will, so this news will be no real blow—I’m sure you will all manage quite admirably.’
There was a stunned silence. Rachel stared round at the room she had spent the past few days clearing up and shook her head in disbelief. Grice rubbed his frowning forehead and muttered to himself, whilst Mrs Rigpath bristled and her chest inflated as she prepared to give vent to a tirade of abuse and a mighty dollop of her mind. Before she could let loose one single syllable, however, Rowena raised a hand and delivered another devastating piece of news.
‘Naturally I shall not expect you to remain here. You must vacate your rooms by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest. Now you may go.’
‘Tomorrow?’ spluttered Rachel, and Mrs Rigpath was too shocked even to protest.
‘I believe that is reasonable,’ said Rowena. ‘After all, I have no contract with you to uphold. Now I think you had better start packing. Good day.’
Later that afternoon, Rachel struggled down the stairs with her suitcases. She wasn’t going to spend another minute in that house. Mrs Rigpath was still in her room, wondering where she could go, and Grice was sitting in the shed, dolefully gazing at the gleaming tools he must leave behind.
The cellars of the old house were filled with the accumulated junk of centuries: armchairs, lampshades, picture frames, empty tea chests, bundles of newspapers bound with string, hideous jugs, cracked vases, a mouldy leather flying helmet complete with goggles, a metal gauntlet from a suit of armour, and many other bits of useless rubbish.
A naked light-bulb glared from the vaulted ceiling, throwing stark shadows on to the walls, but Rowena had no time to notice them. With a torch in her hand, she peered into the dark corners and pulled boxes and papers roughly aside.
Cobwebs netted her short blonde hair and the disturbed dust glued itself to the fine, sticky strands. The grime from years of neglect streaked down her face as she drew her grubby hands over her brow. Insects who had never seen the light fled in terror as the fierce torch beam shone into their dark territories. Brittle beetle backs crunched beneath Rowena’s careless feet as she waded deeper into the junk mounds, swearing and shrieking with impatience.
‘Where is it?’ she screamed. ‘Where?’
With unrelenting violence she flung everything aside, then began tapping the walls with the handle of her torch. For an hour she paced about the cellar, picking at the bricks with her broken fingernails and clawing at the mortar to see if there were any hidden doors or passageways.
When she was satisfied that the walls and floors were solid and free of any secret openings, Rowena stomped up the cellar steps. ‘It must be somewhere here!’ she growled.
In a wild fit of temper, she threw herself against the panelled walls of the hall and snatched down the tapestries and pictures which were hiding the damage from the break-in. She scraped her fingers down the splintered wood and peered into the space between it and the bricks beyond. But the holes were too few and too small for her to see properly.
‘If I have to demolish the vile place…’ Her own words returned to haunt her and she dashed outside to the shed.
The unquestionable kingdom of Grice was an outbuilding situated against the rear wall of the garden. It was a small stone hut, probably as old as the house itself, with one narrow window. The solid oak door was hung on rusting iron hinges and needed a good shove to open.
Grice was still there when Rowena forced her way in. She stared at him for a moment as if she had forgotten there was anyone in the world apart from herself. And in his turn Grice stared at her: she looked as though she had been having a dust bath.
‘Axe,’ she demanded. ‘Give me an axe.’
The ex-handyman had never lent his beloved tools to anyone before, but then, they didn’t really belong to him any more. Garden shears, hammers and rakes hung, clean and polished, in tidy rows on the plastered walls. Every conceivable implement was there and he took a great pride in keeping them all in mint condition.
‘What fer you want an axe?’ he asked slowly.
Rowena drew herself up. ‘That is none of your concern,’ she snarled. ‘Give it to me!’
Grice removed the gleaming axe from its hook on the wall and passed it over in silence. Rowena snatched at it and charged back to the house. With a crazed yell she brought the axe blade crashing down into the oak panels. Fragments of splitting wood filled the air as she hewed and chopped. A mad light was in her eyes and she was consumed by the desire to destroy.
‘It will be mine!’ she cried. ‘It must be mine!’
In her room, Mrs Rigpath the cook heard the terrible noise and changed her mind about not wanting to leave. ‘Perhaps it is for the best after all,’ she told herself. ‘That Cooper woman’s definitely round the twist.’
Ben stared out of his bedroom window. It looked down on to Aunt Alice’s little garden, where a fat blackbird was stealing the raspberries that grew against the cottage wall. Beyond, the steep grassy slope of the cliffside reared up over the rooftops, and melted into the afternoon haze.
The boy rolled over on to his bed and glared at the primroses on the wallpaper. He was bored and in a foul mood. Ever since that night on the beach when the evil aufwader had attacked him, Ben had been forbidden to go out after dark. Of course he had complained and protested—what about Nelda and Hesper? He had an important part to play in the hunt for the moonkelp for, according to Nelda’s vision, without him they would be unable to find it. Miss Boston, however, had stood firm on this; on no account was he to leave the house at night—it was far too dangerous out there now.
So Ben had suffered indoors all this time, without even a chance to tell Nelda about her father. In the daytime he had roamed along the shore and searched on the cliff-top, but had not been able to find her. It was so unfair; they probably thought he was deliberately avoiding them.
Miserably, Ben sucked his top lip. At first he had appealed to Jennet to help him slip out, but that had been a big mistake, for she had immediately told Aunt Alice. After that they doubled their efforts to keep him indoors at night, making sure that when he went to bed he stayed safely in his room. It was like being a prisoner when the evening fell and he hated it. He could not even go to the toilet without one of his jailers keeping an ear open.
He pushed his hand under the pillow and fished out the ammonite he had found. Idly he turned it over in his fingers. ‘Poor Nelda,’ he murmured. ‘She must think I don’t care. What if the moonkelp has bloomed whilst I’ve been stuck in here? They’ll never get the curse lifted if that’s happened.’
The door to his room opened and Jennet looked in. ‘Aunt Alice isn’t back yet,’ she told him, ‘so what do you want for tea?’
Ben shr
ugged. ‘Nothin’,’ he mumbled.
‘Fine by me,’ his sister answered. She was fed up with his sulks—he had to learn that he could not go off on his own any more. She closed the door and went downstairs. The boy stuck his tongue out at the closed door and muttered rebelliously to himself.
Jennet returned to the parlour where she had been reading a book on the history of Whitby. She didn’t feel hungry either. It had been a sad, quiet day. They had heard the tragic news about Miss Droon the first thing that morning and Aunt Alice had wept a great deal. Nearly all her friends were gone now and Jennet felt very sorry for her. After a while. Miss Boston went round to see how Edith Wethers was taking the news and they mourned their loss together. Whitby had become a very sad place since the arrival of Rowena Cooper.
With a sigh. Jennet sat back in the armchair and picked up the book once more. The hours passed slowly. She stifled several yawns and tried to keep awake. The book waded stodgily through names and events over the centuries, from Hilda to Scoresby, Caedmon to Cook, listing them all with dry detail. Wearily she flicked through its pages, skipping over Whitby’s whaling days and a horrible account of the lifeboat disaster. A small passage told how the abbey had been damaged in the First World War by two German cruisers that opened fire on the town, but there were no pictures to enliven the dreary text and Jennet’s eyelids slid down heavily. Into the subconscious murk of dreams she sank; whales burst out of the sea and exploding shellfire lit the sky.
With a jolt. Jennet snapped awake. The light outside had failed and the parlour was filled with shadow. She looked at the grandfather clock: she had been asleep for nearly two hours.
An empty rumble echoed through her stomach and she decided that it was time to eat. ‘Ben must be starved,’ she tutted as she went into the hall.
‘Do you want your tea now, Ben?’ she called up the stairs. There was no reply. ‘Stop sulking,’ she shouted. ‘I’m doing some beans on toast if you’re interested.’ There was still no sound. Jennet was suddenly suspicious. She ran up to his bedroom and flung open the door. It was empty.