The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  Jennet slowly came out of her daze and unsteadily rose to her feet. "Oh," she said, "what about you? Did Danny hurt you?"

  Ben shook his head. "I'll live," he replied, trying to sound cheerful.

  She took his hand and her eyes stared out over the garden, falling on the wrecked bonfire. "Oh Ben," she said sadly, "how could they be so mean? And where's your guy—did they take that too? I'm sorry."

  He shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said simply, "it was only some old clothes stuffed with paper."

  "But you spent so long making it," she sobbed, "it's just wicked, how could they?" Jennet took a deep, steadying breath then added in a determined voice, "Well I'm not going to let them get away with it, I'm going to tell Miss Wethers."

  "You'll only cause more trouble!"

  "I don't care," she said firmly, and with that they went into the cottage.

  Miss Wethers was sitting quietly in the parlour, still avidly reading her romance when they disturbed her. She took one look at Jennet's face and covered her own with her hands.

  "They did what?" she kept squeaking as they told her what had happened. "They did what?" The postmistress's mouth flapped open like a letter-box and she bristled with indignation. "The little brutes!" she exclaimed. "How beastly of them." Out came her tissue and it went dabbing about the girl's glowing face as she chirped her concern.

  "Most distressing," Miss Wethers declared when the tale was complete. "That Turner hooligan is a danger to everybody." She wrung her hands together for a few moments as though she were screwing herself up for some brave action. Then, plunging her tissue back up her sleeve, she stepped back into the shoes she had discarded whilst reading and said in a tone that neither of the children had heard from her before, "I'm not standing for this! If Alice were here, she wouldn't stand for this kind of bullying, cowardly behaviour and nor will I. I'm going straight round to that young villain's house and have one or two sharp words with his parents. He needs keeping in order and if they won't do something about it I shall go to the police station—I don't care if they pack him off to a Borstal. I will not tolerate such disgusting behaviour!"

  Into the hall she stormed and snatched her coat from the peg. "Jennet," she said, opening the front door, "you attend to your teas—I shan't be long!" The door slammed behind her and the normally meek postmistress went stomping off through the alleyway.

  The children stared at one another in surprise. "Who would have thought that from her?" whistled Ben. "She wouldn't say boo to a goose."

  "Must be made of stronger stuff than we thought," smiled Jennet. "But that doesn't mean you can keep frightening her like you have been doing. It makes you no better than Danny when you do that."

  Before Ben could answer, there came a fierce hammering on the front door. Both children jumped and looked at each other fearfully.

  "Perhaps it's Danny again," murmured Ben.

  "I don't think so, he wouldn't knock for one thing."

  "He might, just to trick us."

  "Well if we don't answer it we'll never find out," Jennet said, pulling the door open. She cast her eyes around the yard; it was dark and deserted. The November evening had fallen thickly, filling the place with silence and night shadows. "Strange," she murmured.

  "Who is it?" asked Ben trying to peer over her shoulder.

  Jennet moved back to close the door. "Weird," she said.

  "What is?" cried Ben, ducking under her arm.

  "There's nobody out here," she told him, "no one at all."

  Ben said nothing, for his sister was wrong. Standing on the step, leaning on his staff and glowering impatiently, was Nelda's grandfather.

  "'Bout time an' all," the aufwader grumbled, "ah were gonna gi' up on thee."

  The boy blinked in astonishment. Of all possible visitors Tarr was the last he had expected. "Hello," he began nervously, it was most unusual for any of the fisherfolk to call on a human and already he was wondering what this portended. "Is there something wrong?" he asked.

  His sister looked down at him and pushed on the door. "Of course there isn't," she answered, thinking he was talking to her, for she was unable to see or hear the aufwader. "Shift out of the way, it's too draughty to leave it open."

  But her brother did not budge and Tarr gave Jennet a curious stare. "Daft as owt!" he remarked. "Womenfolk are allus addle-pated. But aye, theer's summat wrong all right—very wrong."

  Ben tugged at his sister's sleeve. "Jen," he hissed, "there is someone here, it's Nelda's grandfather."

  "Oh," was all she could find to say. There were times when she completely forgot about her brother's "gift", as Aunt Alice put it. In fact, she would rather it was never mentioned, as it had only ever got them into trouble. She knew about the fisherfolk of course, but was never comfortable when Ben talked about them. "What does he want?" she asked.

  "I don't know."

  Tarr thumped his staff on the ground, rattling the terracotta flowerpots nearby. Jennet could not fail to see that. Then, the aufwader cleared his throat and coughed as though beginning a speech.

  "Hark up, lad," he began, "ah's come to thee with a purpose—and trust you me, ah wouldna have come fer any other than her. It's been many years since I set foot in this town and that's just the way it would've stayed too." He paused to suck his teeth and gaze at the surrounding houses. "Lobster pots an' crates," he sourly commented, "ah dunna ken how tha can abide such hutches."

  Ben stopped himself smiling. Tarr was extremely old and he didn't want to appear disrespectful. "So why have you come?" he asked.

  The aufwader scratched his wiry white whiskers, clicking his tongue as though there was a bad taste in his mouth. "'Tis Nelda," he said, "she's the one what bid me come and sithee."

  "Nelda!" exclaimed the boy. "But why didn't she come herself? And why come here at all? I tried to call her on the shore this morning but there was no reply."

  Tarr held up his hand. "Aye," he nodded, "she heard thee, us all did... shrikin' yer dunceful head off."

  "Then why didn't she answer?"

  The aufwader lowered his voice and shook his head sorrowfully. "Nelda were busy,' he said. "Were tasks she had to see to..." He looked the boy steadily in the eyes and came to the point at last. "This night," he said, "the moon'll be full an' round and at such times do the Bridings take place. When the tide comes high up the cliff, my granddaughter I'll wed."

  "Married?" Ben whispered in disbelief. "But... who?"

  But Tarr was staring into the sky and tutting at the lateness of the hour. "Enough," he barked, "we're a wastin' stood here. What ah wants to know... is tha comin' or not?"

  "Me?"

  "Tha's not deaf is thee? If'n tha's willin', best come along now. Bid thy sister goodnight for tha'll not be back afore dawn." And that was all he would say. The invitation had been made and that was what he had promised Nelda he would do. Leaning on his staff, Tarr hobbled down the step and walked slowly across the yard.

  "Wait!" Ben called after him. The boy turned to Jennet and hurriedly tried to explain what was happening. "I've got to go," he told her, grabbing his coat, "tell Miss Wethers I'll be back later."

  "Ben!" she shouted. "You can't go just like that! What am I supposed to tell her? She'll never believe me about those friends of yours."

  "Then pretend I've gone to bed," he said, "she won't look in—and remember to leave the latch off the door, I don't have a key!"

  Jennet stared helplessly after him. As Ben disappeared into the alley, she softly breathed, "Be careful," and closed the door.

  In Church Street, few of the houses were lit and it seemed a forbidding, cramped place where the everlasting stream of night flowed through. When Ben caught up with Tarr, the old aufwader was gazing fixedly at the ground, taking no notice of the buildings that reared up beside him. The boy was still struggling into his duffle-coat and when he eventually fastened the toggles he asked, "Why didn't Nelda mention it to me before? Who is she marrying? I thought she was still quite young."

&nb
sp; Tarr ground his teeth together. "Aye," he bitterly agreed, "she'm a child still, but that has'na stopped him," and he cursed under his breath. "An ill time this be, an theer ain't no one who can cure it. Hurry lad, theer's a might to get done this e'en—if'n my heart can bear the strain."

  Pausing at the few steps which led to the shore, he pointed with his staff and muttered darkly, "The omens are bad for this. An icy wind gusts in over the waters and ah done seen fish floatin' dead on the waves. Foul critters of the black deeps what have no rights comin' to these shallows, an' each one had theer eyes pecked clean out. 'Tis a warnin', ah told 'em. They ain't pleased. Aye, an' all night long the souls were a-calling up from the Gibberin' Road—weren't no cave kippin' peaceably wi' that racket goin' on. Nah, us are bein' told—this Briding ain't proper, 'tain't decent and if'n it goes ahead... well, ah dursn't dwell on what may come about. Ah'll speak no more on it!"

  Pulling the brim of his woollen hat down to meet his spiking brows, the aufwader pressed his chin into the neck of his gansey and pushed ahead. Beside him, Ben could only try and guess what was behind it all and, wrapped in this uneasy, grim silence, they vanished down the steps on to the sands, merging into the cloak of night.

  ***

  Mr Taylor, the curator of the museum gave one last glance around; everything seemed in order, there was no one left, but he ducked his head just to make sure—he had once found a tramp hiding under a display case. There was nobody lurking there tonight however, and he had already checked the other rooms. Methodically he counted through the keys on his chain until he found the one he sought. With a jingle, the inner doors were locked and he strode across the art gallery to join the last visitor who was lingering by the main entrance.

  "Takes a tidy while to see it all gets done," he explained, going through the keys once more. "Be getting a fancy alarm next month so that'll be another lot of keys I expect—put your pockets out something rotten they do. The wife's always complaining about the state of them, but you have to put up with these minor discomforts, don't you?"

  The other man smiled with benign understanding. "An unsolvable problem," he said.

  "Yes, but a necessary one. Can't be a curator without having keys, eh?" He turned the lock then tried the door to make certain. "Lovely," he beamed, "that'll keep the robbers out."

  His brief acquaintance raised his eyebrows. "Do you have much trouble with burglars?" he inquired.

  "Not usually," came the considered reply. "We did have a spot of bother a couple of months ago, mind. Some dirty thief broke in and filched one of our most interesting pieces."

  "Really? What was that? You do have some wonderful treasures in there—that storm predictor for example, absolutely marvellous."

  Mr Taylor glowed with pleasure at this compliment. "Yes," he admitted, "we're justly proud of our prognosticator, and that's what makes that theft so baffling. It wasn't anything really valuable that got nicked. Of course, when I say that I mean in money terms like the jet carvings and such, no this was something more uncanny you might say. It was the Hand of Glory that was nicked, a gruesome little exhibit but I was rather fond of it myself."

  "I don't know what the world is coming to," remarked the other.

  They walked slowly through the park and down towards the town which was now twinkling with electric light. At the foot of the hill Mr Taylor shook the man's hand and wished him well.

  "I trust you did find out what you were after?" he asked.

  "I did indeed."

  "That's a thing I'd always like to get round to doing. Tracing the family tree is a rare challenge. I'm so glad to have been of assistance, I hope you were able to make head and tail of the abbot's book—I don't usually let anyone take it out of the case but you being a historian I thought, well, why not. You know—you've wheedled more out of that old library in the one afternoon than most of the people round here do in a year."

  "Perhaps my researches were more important."

  "Mebbe. Anyway, this is where I leave you, sir."

  They shook one another by the hand once more and as the curator went his way Nathaniel said, "Thank you again—it's been a most enlightening day."

  ***

  The warm buzz of the radio diffused through the darkened front room and the faint beat of the dance band was like the distant pulse of a dying man. In the fireplace the embers were a deep cherry colour and when they crumbled, the sound of the falling ash was like an expiring sigh. Mr Roper sat in his shabby armchair, his eyes closed and his head on his chest, but he was not asleep.

  For hours he had sat there, watching as the light failed outside and listening to the fire dwindle and collapse. Slowly the shadows had mushroomed up around the chair, enclosing it in a gloomy canopy and still he had not moved. Mr Roper was lost in thought. There were so many things he still had not done, so many things left unsaid, now that it had come he found that he just wasn't ready.

  Carefully, he unclasped the hands folded over his heart and a reflected light gleamed dully between his fingers. It was a small silver frame that the fading firelight had picked out—the one that contained a photograph of his late wife.

  "Oh Margaret," he murmured, breaking the still calm, "a right mess I'm in." He pressed the glass to his lips and gave her a gentle kiss. "Won't be long now," he promised.

  The smiling face of his wife gazed blindly out at him, but the visage was stained red by the fire's glow and Mr Roper laid it close to his breast once more. The evening drew on and the hands of the ticking clock on the mantel whirled around.

  It was late when the doorbell rang. The severe noise seemed to hack away at the peace of the front room, utterly fragmenting it. The old man looked up from the chair, it was half-past eleven. Wearily he struggled to his feet, his legs stiff and aching after being seated for so long. Taking his time, he returned the silver frame to its rightful position next to the clock and shuffled out into the hallway. A tall figure was silhouetted against the glass of the door and the old man nodded as though he had been expecting this caller.

  Opening the door, Mr Roper beheld for the first time Nathaniel Crozier. The bearded stranger was standing on the path, his hands held solemnly in front of him, precisely the same stance as that of a vicar presiding over a burial.

  "Yes?" Mr Roper began. "Can I help you?"

  Nathaniel had been examining the nearby houses, all the curtains were closed—no one had seen him approach and ring the bell. He turned and considered the pensioner, a secretive smile forming on his face.

  "Good evening to you," he purred, "would I be right in assuming you to be Arnold Roper?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "My name is Crozier. I am a historian researching into local history..."

  The old man showed no outward sign of surprise that someone should come to see him at this late hour. But, before Nathaniel could elaborate, he shushed him. "'Taint no use, whatever you're about," he said, "Arnold were my elder brother—died in the Great War, so you're wastin' yer time."

  Nathaniel straightened, taken aback at this unexpected news. "Died," he repeated. "Did he leave an heir?"

  "Arnold were only seventeen, weren't even courtin'. Now I'm sorry but there's a tin of cocoa waiting for me and it's too parky chatting on doorsteps."

  The warlock smiled and showed all his regular teeth. "Then may I come in?" he asked. "Just for a moment."

  Mr Roper rubbed his ear indecisively. It was no use putting this off, he thought—if it must be, then get it over with. "All right," he said, "come in."

  Nathaniel stepped inside and let out a low, wicked chuckle as he closed the door behind him. "There are no lights on in this house," he observed. "Why were you sitting in the dark?"

  "'Taint always nice to see what yer talking to," his host replied pattering back down the hall.

  Nathaniel's head reared. There was a touch of insolence in that voice and he wondered if Mr Roper knew his true purpose.

  The kitchen light snapped on and the old man poured a quantity of mi
lk into a pan. "Would you care for a cup?" he asked. "I always make it nice an' milky, guarantees a good night's sleep and keeps away the gremlins that'd otherwise disturb me. I don't like to be disturbed."

  "No," answered the warlock, wandering from room to room switching on all the lights. "That's better, now we can see what we're about and just where we stand."

  Mr Roper made no comment on this presumptuous action on the part of his guest, instead he turned the gas on and took a mug from the shelf.

  "About your brother," Nathaniel continued. "What happened to his belongings after he died?"

  The old man ignored him for the time being, occupied in spooning cocoa powder out of the tin. "Didn't have much on him," he eventually said, "only a watch my father left him, some letters and a photograph of us all."

  "I didn't mean that!" the other snapped. "What about his estate here in Whitby? Where did his effects go?"

  "Weren't rich enough to own an estate," came the stubborn and aggravating response. "Only these four walls and they passed to me after our Sammy and Harry went the same way, and after that our Mam passed on. Tough days they were, wouldn't go back to them. Memories cheat you know, there weren't never any good old days, not for the likes of ordinary folk. If I had the chance to nip back in time, I'd only do it to see my Margaret again. But then that's a pleasure I'll be having right enough one of these days, I reckon. I know when my time comes she'll be there waitin' fer me—Lord, how I loved her."

  The milk started to boil but before he could turn off the gas Nathaniel sprang forward and knocked the pan from the stove. Hot milk gushed everywhere and the pan was sent clattering over the linoleum.

  "Don't play games with me!" he commanded, grabbing the old man and spinning him round to face him.

  Throughout all this Mr Roper remained perfectly calm. He glanced at the mess on the floor and tutted. "Have to mop that up before it goes sour," he mumbled, "nothing worse than the smell of off milk."

  Nathaniel screamed and pushed him against the sink. "Shut up!" he roared. "You know what I've come for! Tell me where it is, you old fool!"