The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  ***

  "Missing Cats Mystery" read the headline of the Gazette. Since the beginning of October many pets had disappeared. At first, when rabbits had been wrenched from their hutches, the culprit was believed to be a fox—or perhaps that large dog which had been heard roaming the streets in the dead of night. But no one had heard that hollow, baying voice for some time now and when the number of missing animals continued to rise, suspicions were turned elsewhere. The popular theory of the moment was that an unscrupulous furrier was to blame—it was not unusual for cat skins to be used in the fur trade and as most of the vanished Tiddles and Toms had been fine specimens with luxuriant coats this seemed most likely. Cat owners had become extremely careful when they put their loved ones out at night. Some even tied them to long pieces of string to prevent them straying too far. The indignant cat-calls could be heard all over town when the time came for the poor pusses to be yanked back indoors.

  Perhaps it was this concern for the well-being of the family pet that first started it all. One thing was certainly true however—Whitby had changed. For whatever reason, the seaside town was not the same place. Whereas, only a month ago, the inhabitants would greet each other with a friendly wave or stop in the street for a chat, now they merely nodded a terse acknowledgement. Over both the West Cliff and the East there was a brooding tension and a general sense of anxiety filled the hearts of everyone.

  Norman Gregson lay slumped, stuffed in the only armchair capable of accommodating him. Over the bass drum of his stomach a pair of black braces strained, circumnavigating a bulk greater than they had been made for. Mr Gregson had gobbled enough breakfast to fill a giant walrus and that was precisely what he looked like. This most unpleasant and laziest of the Black Horse regulars had washed the four rounds of toast, two fried eggs, frazzled rashers of bacon and gristly sausages down with a bottle of stout. This was then followed by two pieces of bread which his wife, Joan, in a rare moment of domesticity, had fried in the same fat as everything else. Now he snorted and wheezed in his sleep, grease still dribbling from his open mouth and congealing on his pink, fleshy chin.

  This contented, snoring oaf had only two passions in life, namely the aforementioned Black Horse, where the old joke was that he ran from one nag to another, and the vegetable patch in the back garden. Between rows of onions and cabbages Norman was a different person. All the tenderness he denied his wife and the world was lavished upon his darling, uncritical vegetables. Within the well-weeded confines of his very own realm, and safely screened by the lattice of runner beans, his heavy bulk could rest, away from the tart tongue of Mrs Gregson and the unfinished jobs in the house.

  But that morning the armchair had his undivided attention because his harpy of a wife was pegging out the washing. On such days it was impossible to seek sanctuary outdoors. With sheets and nightgowns flapping and that carping voice screeching like fingernails down a blackboard it was better to pass the time unconscious. In his dreams his onions were the size of footballs and rosettes smothered the garden like a forest of sunflowers.

  A large, wet smile creased his round face and he uttered whimpers of pleasure when one of his cabbages was so huge that he actually hollowed it out and turned it into another potting shed. People came from miles around just to look at this marvel and there were rumours of a knighthood in the offing. All over Whitby the church bells were ringing in his honour and he swelled with paternal pride.

  The doorbell rang again. Norman shifted uneasily, the empty bottle in his hand escaped from his plump fingers, rolled down the hillside of his belly and dropped on to the floor.

  "NORMAN!" came a voice from the garden loud enough to alert ships at sea. "Norman! Answer the flaming door!"

  The giant cabbage suddenly sprouted wheels, became a caravan and trundled far away. Mr Gregson grunted then woke up.

  Once more the doorbell jingled angrily. He drew his fingers over the high, polished dome of his head, yawned and blinked.

  "Get that! You big dollop of lard!" shrieked the klaxon from the garden.

  Norman pulled a face and swore under his breath. "Shut up, you silly old mare," he mumbled drowsily. "I'm getting it."

  Stretching, and imperilling the braces even further, he hauled himself from the chair. However, before he went to the front door, he did exactly what his wife would have done—he peered through the net curtain.

  "Who's that then?" he grumbled, staring at the bearded man on the step. "What's in them cases? If it's brushes he's after sellin' he's had that!"

  Unfortunately Norman was not as deft a lace-twitcher as Mrs Gregson for the stranger saw him.

  Two dark eyes turned to stare at the round face in the window and for a moment Norman felt an inexplicable twinge of fear. Hastily he withdrew and shuffled to the door to see what the nuisance wanted.

  "Well?" he demanded throwing the door open wide to intimidate the man by the size of his stomach. "What does yer want? I ain't gonna buy nowt, an' if'n it's charity yer after I don't hold wi' it!"

  "My name is Crozier, Mr Gregson," came the soft reply, "Nathaniel Crozier. And there's no need to worry, I don't believe in charity either."

  "'Ere," Norman put in, "how comes yer knowed my name? From the Social Security, are yer? Wastin' my time snoopin' round askin' questions—it's me back an' me heart, Doctor says. Unfit for work I am, I told 'em before—now get out of it!"

  But the stranger remained on the step and when he next spoke his voice was calm yet insistent. "Mr Gregson," he said, "why don't you invite me in—just for a moment?"

  "Invite you in?" Norman repeated with a sharp laugh. "Beggar off!"

  Still the man did not move, he stared fixedly at the huge bulk in the doorway and took a step closer. "Ask me inside," he said again.

  Mr Gregson had had enough. He didn't like the look of this weird bloke. That was the trouble with living in a holiday resort, it attracted all manner of peculiar characters, especially in the off-peak season. He made to shut the door in the man's face but at that moment his wife emerged from the garden to see what all the fuss was about and pounded up the hallway.

  "Who is it?" she squawked, unable to see beyond her husband.

  "No one," Norman replied.

  "Shift yerself and let me see!" Joan Gregson growled, grabbing two handfuls of her husband's girth and pushing him aside. When she had managed to squeeze by, she looked at Nathaniel Crozier blankly. "Who did yer say it were?" she hissed back at Norman.

  "Nobody, just some feller who won't clear off."

  Joan assumed her natural stance of folded arms with eyebrows raised. "Well what does he want?"

  "God knows!"

  "Ruddy hopeless you are!" she snorted, clipping Norman round the ear with the back of her hand. "Couldn't yer be bothered to find out? My God but you're idle!"

  A faint smile flickered over Nathaniel's face as the pair of them squabbled. This was more like it—he could easily manage Mrs Gregson.

  "Dear lady," he began, "I was only trying to tell your husband..."

  "And you can keep yer flamin' nose out!" she snapped back. "Who the 'ell do you think..." Mrs Gregson's voice faltered, the eyes of the man were so dark—she had never seen anything like them before. A curious tingling sensation caused her to shiver under the scrutiny of those lovely eyes and she found it quite impossible to remember what she had been about to say. "I... I'm sorry," was all she could manage.

  Nathaniel smiled more broadly and the woman felt her face flush. "Good morning to you," he went on. "I am afraid you must forgive me if I stare, dear, dear lady."

  Joan suppressed a girlish giggle and fidgeted with the clothes-peg she still clutched in one hand. Whoever the gentleman might be, he was certainly charming.

  "May I come in?" he asked her, and to the beguiled Mrs Gregson it seemed the most natural thing in the world to invite this wonderful stranger into her house. To deny him entry would be unthinkably rude and impolite. Her face lit up, glad beyond measure to think that someone as fascinating as
this would want to spend time with her.

  "No you can't!" came the gurgling response from her husband, who was still lurking behind her.

  Joan whirled round and cracked him on the head once more. "In yer chair!" she spat. "If I want to have visitors, I flamin' will!"

  Norman rubbed his head, glaring at her murderously. He was amazed that she had fallen for that load of corny rubbish, but when his wife wanted something there was nothing he could do to stop her. "Please yerself!" he growled, making for the armchair.

  Mrs Gregson turned back to the man on the doorstep—her doorstep. "You'll have to excuse my husband," she apologised in the voice she reserved for the telephone and the hairdresser. "He were never brought up proper and don't know how to behave with company."

  "I understand," beamed Nathaniel, "now where were we?"

  "You were coming in."

  "Ah yes," he said and there was a touch of uncertainty in his voice. He glanced quickly down to where the step met the doorframe then cleared his throat and began more brightly, "So, am I invited?"

  "Course you are."

  "Then say it."

  "Please, come in."

  The smile on Nathaniel's face faded and was replaced by a repugnant expression of triumph and scorn. He stepped arrogantly over the threshold of the Gregson house and put his luggage down in the hallway as if claiming the dwelling for his own.

  It was a dingy place, the last lick of paint having been reluctantly daubed over the walls nine years ago and that was a drab biscuit colour. Cheap prints in even cheaper frames were the only decoration in the dreary hall, apart from a gaudy brass clock set in a picture of Big Ben, and Nathaniel allowed a sneer to cross his face. The pretence was over now, he had achieved what he wanted.

  Mrs Gregson, however was still oblivious to the drastic change that had come over her charming guest. She sailed into the parlour eager to show off her home.

  "In here," she called encouragingly, this was quickly followed by a whispered, "and you'd better behave!" to her husband.

  With his hands in his pockets Nathaniel strolled into the room. He glanced round at the China dogs that cluttered the mantelpiece and smirked.

  "What about a nice cup of tea?" Joan asked, straightening the pile of gardening magazines by her husband's chair.

  "Nice?" echoed Nathaniel ironically. "And how do you measure whether anything is 'nice'?"

  "It's a new packet," she answered, mystified at his remark. "If you don't want tea, we've coffee—there's some Garibaldis too if you like."

  "No there ain't," her husband chipped in, "them's all gone."

  "Pig!" she mouthed at him before turning back to Nathaniel. "Well what about some nice fig rolls—I know we've some of those, Norman don't like them."

  Nathaniel Crozier threw back his head and laughed—his contempt now plain to see. "There's that word again!" he roared. "Do you realise how ridiculous you are, you stupid hag? 'Nice'! Is that the only way you can describe anything? What about 'desirable', 'tantalising', 'insatiable'?"

  Both Joan and Norman looked at him in astonishment.

  "No," he continued with a shake of his head, "they're too passionate for your pallid tastes aren't they?" He gestured to the tacky ornaments around the fireplace, the coasters on the coffee table that depicted London landmarks and the striped, beige curtains. "Is this hideous litter really what you term 'nice'? You pathetic, tiny minded creatures. I had forgotten how witless people like you could be."

  "'Ere!" erupted Norman from the armchair. "Who are you callin' names? Get out!"

  Nathaniel ignored him but said to his wife, "You have a spare room here I believe. Have it made ready and take my luggage up for me."

  This was too much for Mr Gregson. He dragged himself out of the chair faster than he had moved in a long time shouting, "Right! Your feet ain't gonna touch the floor, sunshine!"

  He caught hold of Nathaniel's coat but the man whirled round and the blackness of his eyes stabbed out at him. "Get back in your chair!" he commanded. "I am in control now—return to your sty, you swine, before I lose my patience! Sit!"

  Norman swayed unsteadily, the force behind that voice was unbearable, it fell on him like a great wall collapsing and there was nothing he could do to withstand it. Before he realised what he was doing, Mr Gregson sank back into the armchair and did not move again.

  "Norman!" wailed his wife running over to him. "What's the matter, is it your heart? Speak to me!"

  "He cannot," Nathaniel told her coldly, "I have paralysed him—the idiot, almost as odious as yourself, who would have thought there would be such a matching pair as you two in such a small town as this."

  Mrs Gregson was bewildered. What had happened to the man? She had thought... but that foolishness was over now. She brushed the hair from her face and shook her husband one more time. He was like a rag doll, only the beating of his heart when she pressed her ear to his chest told her that he was alive.

  "Who are you?" she asked looking up at Nathaniel. "Why have you done this? What is it you want?"

  "My name is Crozier," he replied, "I told your husband but he was too stupid to listen. I have already made my requirements known to you—a spare room for a few days, that should be long enough."

  "Long enough for what?"

  He did not answer her but looked at his watch, "Come now Mrs Gregson, surely you don't want to irritate me like your husband did? You need to be seen around the town or people will grow suspicious. However, if you want to be difficult, a suitable arrangement can be contrived without much inconvenience to myself but with much pain and suffering for you, I'm afraid."

  Joan glanced at her husband whose eyes were wide and staring. He looked dreadful, like one who stared death full in the face. "No," she murmured slowly, "I won't be difficult. The spare room's this way."

  She led Nathaniel back to the hall where she picked up his luggage and toiled up the stairs with it. On the landing she pushed open a door and showed him into the bedroom beyond.

  "This was our son Peter's," she explained nervously. "It's been empty since he married and moved to Huddersfield. I always keep it aired though."

  Nathaniel brushed past her and strode to the window.

  "Not a very good view, I'm afraid," she said wringing her hands in case that mattered, "the cliff rises so steep at the back of the garden, you can't see a thing other than what next-door are doing in theirs."

  The man stared down out of the window. Mrs Gregson was quite right, you could see into the garden next door. He grinned to himself. For there, with a trowel in her hand, busily digging the weeds from a herbaceous border was a white-haired old woman.

  "Excellent," he whispered before turning back to his frightened hostess. "The room is most satisfactory—I shall be perfectly happy here."

  2 - Confrontations

  Midday had come and gone and when Nathaniel set out to climb the one hundred and ninety-nine steps which scaled the cliff it was getting on for two o'clock.

  At the summit he paused, not to catch his breath for he was remarkably fit for his forty-two years. No, he wanted to survey the town as his wife had done. To try and imagine what was running through her twisted and treacherous mind when she had stood there. "Oh Roselyn," he said quietly, "why did you try to break free? Without me you were nothing, it was my skill which released your true nature, my fine, dark, death-hound."

  He tutted at the bustling streets below, where ignorant and unimportant people went about their humdrum existences. How he loathed such places. He despised those tiny narrow lanes surrounded by all those twee cottages. The sight repelled him, Whitby seemed so small and insignificant, yet here his wife had met her end. She who had faced untold peril in the remotest regions of the world and had been priestess under him in all their sinister ventures. It was difficult to believe and he wondered at it. "How could anyone in this seedy backwater have vanquished you?" he breathed. "Were you so hungry for freedom that you were blind to all else? What was it that caught you unawares—w
ho was it?"

  Silently he turned from the scene, the bleak November wind coursing through his hair and tugging at the loose leather patch at his elbow. Surely he wasn't feeling grief at Roselyn's demise? It was an unusual sensation and it surprised him, until of course he realised that what he felt was annoyance. She had been useful—and to find a suitable replacement would take valuable time.

  Shrugging off this pensive mood, he took the lane that ran behind the abbey and made for the next target on his itinerary.

  The derelict house was ugly and shabby, the large window at the front was boarded up and weeds choked the garden path. It looked as though no one had lived there for years. Nathaniel examined the rotting gate and read out the name. "The Hawes." This was the place.

  Here his wife, under the alias Rowena Cooper, had lived but the spell she had woven over the fabric of the building had perished with her and it had fallen back into its grim slovenliness. Maybe here there would be a clue as to what had happened to her. He pushed open the gate and the hinges groaned a high-pitched protest.

  Nathaniel hesitated. He had heard a noise above the squealing metal. The sound had come from the back of the house and he waited as the feverish clattering grew louder.

  "You stay still, young lady!" came a stern voice. "I've had enough of this, it'll be a piece of string for you like every other cat round here. I'm not Tilly you know—I shan't put up with this rebellious behaviour! There, what a disagreeable hole to be sure. Why you keep on coming back is beyond me—just you behave from now on... Oh! Good afternoon."

  From around the corner of the house an old lady appeared. A ghost of a smile twitched over Nathaniel's face—it was the Gregsons' neighbour. He had not expected to meet her quite so soon but there was nothing he could do to avoid it now.

  Alice Boston, a blustering ninety-two year old, marched up the weed-throttled pathway. She was a comical sight; a sage-green tweed cloak was draped around her shoulders and upon her woolly head, perched at a precarious angle and covered in cobwebs, was a shapeless brown hat. When she blinked her eyes disappeared within the wrinkles that circled them and as she walked the spare flesh beneath her chin swung from side to side.