by Robin Jarvis
"I take it Miss Deacon will not be joining me?" she said.
"No," came the pert reply, "she always dines with the mistress in her bedchamber."
"Such devotion," the old lady commented, tentatively sipping the lukewarm soup. "And do you cook the meals for them as well?"
"Miss Deacon sees to both the mistress's and her own requirements, madam," he said. "I am left to fend for myself. We have had no outside company for many months now—not since Cook was dismissed."
"Don't you think that rather odd? I mean, what is your opinion of this private nurse? Isn't she too efficient?"
His mouth twitched into what looked like a sneer but it was difficult to tell with him. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, madam," he replied. "The mistress knows what she is doing—but I haven't seen her for God knows how long. What concern is it to me? I am here merely to serve—I know my place. She tells the nurse and the nurse tells me."
Miss Boston managed to finish the soup and laid her spoon down in relief. Unfortunately she could not stop herself grimacing as the last of the tepid substance slid slimily down her throat.
Rook eyed her suspiciously as he removed the bowl and went to fetch the main course. Miss Boston sniffed. Surely she detected a decidedly alcoholic smell? When the man returned she was even more certain of it.
After a full fifteen minutes, Rook came, staggering into the dining-room wheeling a trolley before him. His legs seemed unable to co-ordinate properly and he tripped more than once on the way.
The main course consisted of cold potted meat and a rather limp-looking salad. Rook dumped the plate unceremoniously before Miss Boston and hovered behind her while she picked through the sad lettuce leaves with her fork, thankful that there were no naked flames nearby—for Rook was definitely drunk! Walter Gunning always kept a good cellar and the butler, it seemed, was fond of sampling it—tonight he had settled on an excellent Napoleon brandy. The old lady wrinkled her nose—the atmosphere in the dining-room was becoming quite like Christmas.
Miss Boston ate as much as she could and leaned back in her chair. At once Rook snatched the plate away, muttering at what she had left, and sent the whole thing clattering back on the trolley. Lettuce leaves flew everywhere.
Swaying unsteadily, Rook glared at the carpet where they had fallen and bent down to retrieve them. After falling on his face he abandoned the attempt and stuck his long nose in the air.
"Would madam care for des...deshert?" he slurred, grabbing hold of the trolley for support.
Miss Boston blinked at him. "Er, no thank you," she answered.
Rook drew himself up and fixed her with one bleary eye. "And why not?" he demanded. "What'sh wrong with it I... I should like to know?"
"Nothing I'm sure," said the old lady feeling rather awkward, "but if you insist, I will have some please."
He nodded his head and rattled the trolley towards the door. "Comesh down 'ere without telling no one then turns her nose up at me des...des... at me pudding."
Miss Boston sighed and wondered what the next course would prove to be. "I dare say it is very dull for the poor man, stuck in here with very little to do all day but to help himself to the cellar—tut, tut. Does he make this a regular occurrence? The racks must be very empty by now if he does."
Another fifteen minutes dragged by. Rook was undoubtedly fortifying himself with another generous helping of brandy. When he returned he was practically riding on the trolley and brought it to a thunderous halt right beside the old lady's chair.
"'Ere it is," he declared. "Get your false teeth round this madam."
On to the table he tossed a bowl of tinned peaches, seized a small jug and poured a quantity of cream carelessly over everywhere except where it was wanted. Miss Boston gritted her teeth as it splashed on to her skirt and blouse and her jowls quivered indignantly. That was too much! She jumped up and threw down her napkin.
"Strangely enough," she stormed, "I actually prefer the cream on the peaches—not on me. You can be sure I'll inform the mistress of the house about this atrocious behaviour. I have never seen such a disgraceful exhibition! You, sir, are drunk as a lord—I suggest you go and make yourself a strong cup of coffee forthwith! And I'll have you know that all my teeth are my own—goodnight!"
She raged out of the dining-room, leaving Rook gaping after her. "Good grashush," he burbled, smiling for the first time in weeks, "what a smashing temper the old crock has."
Miss Boston spent the next half-hour sponging her clothes and shaking her head. When a knock sounded at her door she almost missed it.
"Miss Boston!" came a gruff voice.
The old lady hurried to the door and opened it—Judith Deacon was standing there impatiently. "I trust you dined well," she said.
The old lady was about to tell the nurse what she thought of the butler but decided against it. Not even he deserved the kind of roasting this nightmare woman would dish out. Instead she asked, "May I see Patricia now?"
"Of course you can. She has asked to see you and is waiting. Follow me please."
Miss Boston was led once more to the sickroom, but as soon as she stepped inside she could see that her friend's condition had worsened in the space of only four hours.
Mrs Gunning was visibly weaker, it seemed a terrible effort to her just to keep awake. Miss Boston knelt by the bed, pulled the muslin curtain aside and tried to conceal her shock at the sight of her. The pale blue eyes were roving slowly round, not focusing on anything—it was as though she had been drugged.
"Patricia," Miss Boston said, "it's Alice."
The patient moved her head at the sound of the voice but did not seem to see her. "Alice," she croaked in a faint whisper, "where are you?"
"Here, dear, take my hand."
The eyes swivelled round, blinked drowsily and the mist cleared from them. "Oh Alice," she groaned, "you should see your face—do I look as terrible as all that?"
Miss Boston tried to be a bit more cheerful, pushing to the back of her mind the nagging doubts which had surfaced. "Certainly not," she rallied, "I was just thinking about home—I hope the children are all right with my friend Edith. She's the most awful ditherer you know—probably had umpteen upsets today already."
"Ah," murmured Patricia sadly, "children. How lucky you are. If only Walter and I had been so blessed. Perhaps if we had I wouldn't..." The shadow of the nurse fell on her and Mrs Gunning began to tremble. She glanced nervously at Miss Boston and then her pale, worn face grew suddenly resolute.
"Alice," she began with a desperate urgency, "Alice listen to me. Please, you must remember that I didn't have a choice."
"Pardon, dear?" said Miss Boston. "I can't hear you, Patricia."
"You must... you must not delay. I don't matter any more!"
The rustle of a starched uniform crackled behind them as Judith Deacon took a step closer.
"What are you trying to tell me?" said Miss Boston, concerned at the anxiety that had contorted her friend's face.
"Oh forgive me, Alice, say you forgive me—please!"
"I don't understand," Miss Boston told her. "Patricia do calm down, you're working yourself up for no reason."
"Evil!" she cried, gripping the old lady's hand as tightly as possible. "Great evil!"
"That will be all!" broke in Judith's commanding voice, "Really, Miss Boston, I must ask you to leave, can't you see you're upsetting my patient? I will not tolerate the distress you are putting her through."
"But she's trying to tell me something."
The nurse took Patricia's head in her large hands and stared into the eyes. "She's delirious," she said sternly, "these fits come over her from time to time, a remnant of the fever she had three weeks ago." She gave Miss Boston an angry look and said, "I asked you to leave, would you please do as I say?"
The old lady rose but Patricia was unwilling to let go of her hand. "No," came the pathetic, barely audible voice, "don't leave me."
"OUT!" ordered Judith furiously. "She is too ill for
you to be present—I warned her this would happen."
Miss Boston walked uncertainly to the door. Should she leave? What was Patricia trying to tell her—was it really all a figment of her poor, fevered brain?
The patient began to convulse and the nurse roared, "I shall not tell you again—do I have to throw you out, Miss Boston?"
At that the old lady left. There was nothing she could do but it stung nonetheless, she felt as though she were betraying her friend. Gloomily, she waited outside as the commotion blazed in the sickroom. Finally silence fell, the door opened and Judith Deacon's square head peered round.
"She's settled now," the nurse informed her. "I think it would be best if you didn't see her again tonight—she might be more lucid in the morning, although this attack has drained her considerably. She's far too frail for this excitement."
"Yes," Miss Boston murmured, "poor Patricia, tell her I'll see her first thing—I pray she'll be stronger then."
Judith watched as the old lady unhappily plodded upstairs before returning to the sickroom with a cruel glint in her small, dark eyes.
Mrs Gunning shuddered as the nurse approached the bed. Her mouth fell open and she stammered, "I... I never said anything, I wouldn't...wouldn't say anything."
"You've been a bad girl, Mrs Gunning," Judith snarled with menace. "That was very naughty, you know you're not allowed to tell her don't you? You deviated from what we rehearsed, you almost ruined everything."
"I didn't!"
The pig-like eyes flashed and the nurse growled, "Oh but you so very nearly did—well you won't have a second chance!" She raised one of her strong hands and clenched it into a fist. Mrs Gunning gave a terrified whimper and cringed into the pillows.
7 - At The Church Of St Mary
Ben slept fitfully, most of the bedclothes lay in a crumpled heap where he had kicked them. Squirming, he rolled over once more and murmured unhappily. Ghastly images invaded his dreams, spectral shadows of Danny Turner rose from the frightened corners of his mind like a dark angel whose face was locked in an eternal laugh that pierced and cut right through him.
The bully's apparition wheeled overhead, screeching his doom and crying for blood. Ben tried to flee, vainly wading through the thick black smoke of his sleep. Down swooped the nightmare Danny, his hands now claws, reaching for Ben like an eagle pursuing a lamb.
"Go away," Ben moaned, burning and throwing the sheet from him as though it were the great wings which beat against his face. "No!" he yelled—and then awoke.
It took a few moments for him to get his bearings, the room was so dark that he suspected his dream was not yet over, but when his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he relaxed and wiped his forehead. He was covered in perspiration and his mouth was horribly dry. He sat up, groping with his toes amongst the discarded bedclothes for his slippers. A few moments later he was treading softly along the small landing.
The house was incredibly still and quiet. The well of darkness which filled the space at the foot of the stairs unsettled him. Ben almost reached for the light switch—but he did not want to wake his sister or Miss Wethers, whose gentle snoring he could faintly hear coming from Miss Boston's room. Instead he conquered his nerves and hurried down, passing quickly through the black hall, fumbling for the handle of the kitchen door. Once safely within, he ran the tap and filled a cup with water.
It took two of these brimming cupfuls to quench his thirst and when he had finished Ben stretched—ready for bed again. Just as he was about to climb back up the stairs, the boy paused and turned round. From the yard outside he had heard a noise. It was the sound of a front door closing, followed by determined footsteps ringing over the concrete. Curious, Ben quickly nipped into the front room and peered out from behind the curtains.
The dim glow of the street lamp came fanning in through the alleyway, bathing the yard in a pale wedge of orange light. Ben wiped the remaining drowse from his eyes and stared out.
Nearby stood Nathaniel Crozier. Fortunately his back was to Miss Boston's cottage or he would have seen the boy's face at once. He had just left the Gregsons' house and was carrying a large, heavy-looking bag that clinked when he swung it over his shoulder. He took a step into the slanting light and his shadow flew far behind him, falling across the window where Ben was spying. The boy ducked quickly; it was as if the shadow were aware of him, for Nathaniel immediately turned—but all he saw was the slight movement of the curtain as it fell back into place.
Crouching beneath the sill, Ben listened for the man's footsteps, half expecting him to come over and glare through the window. That thought alone prevented the boy from returning to see what was really happening and two long, uncomfortable minutes ticked by. Not a sound came from the yard—what was Nathaniel doing out there? Ben's heart thumped nervously. He could imagine the man's face pressed up against the glass, his dark eyes penetrating the curtains and searching for him. He wasn't sure why he was so afraid for he hardly knew Mr Crozier and in fact he seemed to have charmed both Jennet and Miss Wethers. Yet he recalled the ugly look on the man's face he had witnessed early that morning and knew he had reason to be frightened. Then, just as he was about to risk lifting the curtain, something touched his arm. Ben gave a squawk and fell backwards in surprise.
Eurydice gave a slight purr—it was unusual for anyone to come down here at this time of night. She pushed her head against him in the hope that he would let her out.
"Get lost," he whispered to the cat. "Go to your basket."
She gave a toss of her head and glided back into the darkness of the room as deftly as if she still had all four legs.
The sound of footsteps echoed from the yard outside. Nathaniel was leaving. Ben swallowed and dared to lift his head over the edge of the window-sill. The man's shadow sailed through the alley and disappeared into the street beyond.
"What's he up to then?" Ben asked. Going over to the mantelpiece he took down Aunt Alice's clock. It was half-past two in the morning. He scowled. Nathaniel was obviously up to no good and his thoughts returned to the heavy bag he had taken with him—what was in it?
Without pausing to think what might happen, Ben dashed into the hall, dragged his coat from the peg and hurried outside, only stopping to put the front door on the latch because he didn't have a key.
The cold November night bit into him, nipping the bare spaces between the top of his slippers and the bottom of his pyjama legs. As he wriggled into the duffle he gave no thought to his reckless actions, nor how stupid he was being—if he was caught out at that time he would be in enough hot water to fill the harbour. All Ben could think about was Nathaniel. There was something extremely dislikable and wrong about that man—no matter what Jennet thought of him. Into the alley the boy ran, his slippers making no sound whatsoever, but when he came to Church Street he pressed himself against the wall and gazed around.
The main thoroughfare of the East Cliff was still as the grave; not one window was lit in any of the houses and Ben thought enviously of the sleeping inhabitants tucked up with their dreams behind the dark curtains. The urgency of his rash impulse was dissipating rapidly, he would much rather go back to bed. All was quiet, only the buzzing of the lamp-posts disturbed the deep calm. In this tranquil scene the slightest sound was amplified and Nathaniel's distorted footsteps rang loud and clear off the cobbles some distance away.
Ben gazed after him. The man was heading towards either the abbey steps or Tate Hill Pier. The boy darted across the road and hid in the entrance to a shop, watching to see which direction he would choose.
"He's going up the steps," he breathed, "but there's nothing up there except the abbey and the church."
Nipping in and out of the gloomy doorways, which in the ghostly sodium light of the street lamps resembled cavernous mouths, Ben gradually followed Nathaniel.
At the foot of the one hundred and ninety-nine steps he halted uncertainly. The man was only half-way up, should he try and follow he would certainly be spotted. Along all that labori
ous flight there was nowhere to hide and if he waited until Nathaniel had reached the top before starting, the man would be out of sight long before he completed the climb.
Ben stared round him desperately—parallel to the steps rose the old donkey road. It was a painfully steep slope, little used by modern traffic but sufficiently screened from the steps for his purpose. Without wasting another second, Ben charged up.
The chill airs above Whitby moved silently over the town, ruffling the feathers of roosting gulls and stirring the strands of smoke which continued to rise from dying fires in neglected hearths. From that great height the buildings appeared as toys, their roofs mere lids to be removed and the contents idly examined.
Nathaniel gave no heed to the view. It was much colder at the top of the steps and pulling up the lapels on his tweed coat, he spun on his heel. The great, dark shape of St Mary's Church reared up before him, blotting out the frosty stars in the black sky. The arc lights had been switched off hours ago and the vast square bulk had an almost menacing feel about it. The building was immovable and solid; a squat fortress that clung to the clifftop, enduring the severe gales which lifted the lead from its roof, and the freezing winters which ate into its stones.
Down the narrow path which wound between ancient and weathered tombstones Nathaniel picked his way. The sheer, grassy slope of the cliff edge was close by and he could hear the gentle rush of the waves breaking on the shore far below. The meandering pathway curved round to the rear of the church and came to a large wooden door. This was rarely used owing to its exposure to the raw, salty wind which raged in off the sea. But here Nathaniel stopped and put the large bag on the ground. There followed a muffled clanking of metal against metal as he searched inside the hold-all until he found what he needed.