by Robin Jarvis
"That's it!" stormed Miss Boston in outrage. "Where is the foul woman now?"
"Asleep in a chair in my room," Patricia wheezed, "it was difficult enough for me to escape without waking her. If she knew I had..." she shuddered and clutched desperately at her friend. "You must go Alice!" she cried. "Back to Whitby where you belong!"
"I'm not going anywhere till I've telephoned the police!"
Patricia gave a sobbing laugh. "Why must you always be such a stubborn old fool?" she asked. "Do you still not understand? Has it not registered even yet?"
Miss Boston sat on the bed, her face blank, a sinister dreadful thought unfolded before her. "Patricia," she mumbled hesitantly, "you haven't told me why Miss Deacon has done this to you."
Grabbing the old lady's hand, Mrs Gunning held it tightly. "I was the lure Alice," she breathed desolately, "I am the bait which brought you here."
"But..." the other murmured, "what for...?"
Patricia's clouded blue eyes gazed steadily into her own. "Something is happening in Whitby," she said, "something horrendous and totally evil—they couldn't risk you being there to interfere with their plans."
"They?"
"I don't know who else is involved, only that you were to be kept away from Whitby at all costs."
Miss Boston slowly rose, her mind filled with apprehensions. "The children," she muttered, "what about them?"
Patricia pressed her hand to her chest, a creeping pain was eating through her. "You must go back to them Alice!" she urged.
"But what about you?"
"I don't matter any more!" Mrs Gunning shifted on the bed. Hidden beneath the folds of her nightdress was a squarish bundle and she brought it out thrusting it into Miss Boston's hands.
The old lady took it and a tear fell down her face.
"You know what it is?" asked Patricia in a rasping voice.
Miss Boston nodded. "Your Book of Shadows," she answered sorrowfully.
"A witch's most valuable possession," coughed Mrs Gunning, "all my knowledge, everything that I knew about the craft—even some secrets you never managed to worm out of me, Alice..." She gasped for breath as the pain increased and Miss Boston knelt to hold her. "Deacon never found it!" she choked. "Always searched, though—beware her Alice! Take care of my book, take care of the children and... forgive me..."
The frail woman let out a long, agonised breath and collapsed in Miss Boston's arms.
"Patricia!" the old lady called. "Patricia!"
But Mrs Gunning was dead, troubled no longer by the wearisome world.
Miss Boston hung her head and kissed her dear friend goodbye. For some minutes she didn't move, too overcome by grief to do anything. Then, as she collected herself, she gently lifted the body and laid Patricia on the bed.
In death, the woman looked radiant; free of all care, her face seemed to regain the glow of youth and the savage bruising no longer marred her skin. With her silver hair flowing about her she looked like a warrior queen from some distant time, noble and proud, descended from saints and kings.
Miss Boston held the Book of Shadows to her breast and sorrowfully murmured, "Blessed be Patricia."
But there would be time to mourn later, for her heart was filled with fear—fear for the children and, if she would admit it, fear for herself.
"Come on, Alice," she said, "pull yourself together—you're a match for any malicious matron!" Still clasping Patricia's book, she scurried from the room.
In her bare feet, Miss Boston hurried down to the first floor landing. It was dark there. Ugly black shadows slashed across the carpet, forming ghastly shapes over the panelled walls—a dismal, fearful place. A chill draught blew up from the cold marble of the hall far below and she braced herself for the unexpected; anything could be hiding in those deep shadows.
Stepping carefully past the sickroom the old lady hastened for the alcove where the telephone stood upon a small table. It was horrible being there in the dark, she had never been afraid of it before, but here, in this house, it was different. Her shoulder blades itched as if someone was watching her but, although she kept looking round, Miss Boston failed to see anything. Gingerly she lifted the receiver, the buzz of the dialling tone seemed unbearably loud and she nearly replaced it to keep from disturbing the heavy silence.
With a trembling finger, she dialled the code for Whitby and then the number of the police station there. "Please answer," she whispered. "Hurry! poor Benjamin and Jennet—heaven knows what might be happening to them!"
The ringing stopped abruptly at the other end of the line and a voice answered, "Police, how can I help you?"
"Thank goodness," sighed Miss Boston gratefully—she had almost feared the town had disappeared. "Listen to me," she began in a hushed voice, "this is Alice Boston. I know it's late but you must go to my cottage—I have reason to believe something terrible is... hello... hello..." They had been cut off.
She rattled the receiver cradle in panic. "Hello?" she cried, her voice rising in alarm. Not a sound came from the ear-piece—the line had gone dead.
Miss Boston slowly turned. "You," she muttered.
Standing on the dark landing was Judith Deacon. The large woman's face was a picture of anger and hatred. Dangling limply from her hands was the severed telephone cord.
"I couldn't permit that!" she growled. "We can't have you spoiling it all now can we, Miss Boston? Where is Mrs Gunning? She was very naughty, flitting off like that."
"Patricia's dead," the old lady told her accusingly, "and as soon as I get in touch with the constabulary I shall tell them exactly what you have done!"
The nurse laughed and took a menacing step closer. "Do you think I'd really let you out of here alive?" she cried. "You really are a stupid old hag!"
Miss Boston edged backwards "You're insane!" she shouted. "You'll never get away with it—all I have to do is call for Rook."
"The butler!" hooted Judith in derision. "He'll be well pickled by now. There'll be no help from him tonight!"
"But don't you realise what it is you've done?" asked Miss Boston, playing for time. "You're a murderess!"
"Mrs Gunning was old!" barked the nurse. "She'd had a good life, lived in luxury for years—what has she got to complain about? There's others in the world who never see such opulence."
"That's no reason to kill her!"
Miss Deacon prowled a little nearer, her masculine hands rising from her side. "I don't care," she rumbled, "I'm not sorry for what I've done—not sorry one tiny bit."
The rail of the landing banister pressed into Miss Boston's back and she knew she could not escape. "How can you say that?" she cried. "You poisoned and beat her—what sort of animal are you?"
Judith shrieked in rage and struck the old lady on the cheek. Miss Boston yelped, but even as she clenched her fists to retaliate the fight died in her and the anger curdled into terror.
"If I am an animal," the nurse seethed, "then I'm a proud one! Yes, I'm proud of what I've done! Now my beloved will be pleased with me—I have done all he asked and done it extremely well. Or rather I will have, after you've been dealt with. I see Mrs Gunning has given you her Book of Shadows—now where did she conceal that, I wonder? I never did manage to find it. You've saved me a great deal of trouble bringing it to me—how considerate."
"Your beloved?" stammered Miss Boston.
Judith closed her eyes and writhed with pleasure. "The most enthralling man I have ever known," she said huskily, "the only man I have ever known. There's no one in the entire world like him. Do you know what he does to me, Miss Boston? Can a dried-up old stick like you comprehend for one moment why the very mention of his name is exquisite torture to me?"
The woman took a further step up to her, with her eyelids drooping languidly and her tongue savouring each syllable. "Nathaniel—Nathaniel Crozier. He's the one who burns in my heart and scorches my blood—for him I would do anything, undergo any torment. He is why I breathe—without him I am nothing. For the whole of my life
no one so much as looked at me, but then he came along, with his charm and his power, he noticed this drab, unloved woman." Her lips peeled back, up to her pink gums and she bellowed, "I worship that man!"
As she spoke a change came over her, a mad light shone in her eyes and her voice became even deeper than before.
"Crozier," repeated Miss Boston, "but that's the man staying at the Gregsons', next door to my cottage!"
Miss Deacon tossed her head and a chilling, snarling gurgle issued from her throat. "That's right, you foul old crone!" she cried. "That's my darling Nathaniel—my beautiful, bearded god!"
Was it a trick of the dark, or were the nurse's eyebrows really growing thicker? Bristling over the bridge of her nose and spiking up to her temples.
"Crozier," Miss Boston said again, her mind confused and bewildered. Staring aghast at the increasingly nightmarish nurse, she grasped the banister for support then remembered at last where she had first heard that name.
"Oh, my Lord!" she cried.
Judith screeched with hellish laughter and the old lady cowered away, tipping dangerously back over the rail. The darkness of the hallway spiralled down below her, down to the cold marble floor. She felt her head spin, reeling from the unspeakable horror which was unfurling and from her grasp slipped the Book of Shadows Patricia had entrusted to her.
Down it fell, tumbling into the waiting dark, its leaves fluttering as it plummeted. Then with a thud, it crashed on to the marble and exploded—pages flying everywhere.
Judith Deacon's eyes blazed with a red light that burned with the unquenchable malice of Hades. Miss Boston trembled, she had witnessed such a change once before.
"Soon Nathaniel and I will be together," Miss Deacon growled, and her teeth were visibly larger. "How I ache for him—how I yearn to feel his arms about me, squeezing until the breath is crushed from my body. I would die for him!"
She seized the old lady's throat with her hands and even as she grappled with her, the strong fingers mutated into claws and black fur crept down her fleshy arms.
"No!" gulped Miss Boston, as the grip tightened round her neck. "Can't you see he's using you? Nathaniel Crozier doesn't care one jot what happens to you—you're nothing to him!"
But Judith's frightening devotion to the evil man was overwhelming. She had no human voice left, and, with a cracking of bone, her square chin began to stretch and her nose tapered into a quivering snout.
Miss Boston felt her strength fail as the dreadful creature strangled the life from her. The glare from the blazing eyes lit her wrinkled face and her head was pushed back as the vicious teeth of the huge black dog came snapping down.
"Nooo!" she wailed. "Noooooo!"
The jaws bore down on her and Miss Boston felt the hound's hot breath beat against her exposed throat. This was the end, her ninety-two years had finally come to an abrupt halt. She who had saved the world from Rowena Cooper could not save herself.
A terrified scream rent the still calm of the night. It pierced the darkness for a brief instant—then was silenced forever.
12 - Blotmonath
"Ben!" Jennet called, pulling the bedclothes off her brother. "Wake up!"
The boy yawned and gazed at her through one drowsy eye. "Mmm?" he mumbled. "Go away."
"It's terrible," she said, moving to the window and drawing the curtains back.
"What time is it?"Ben asked, reaching for the warm covers. "Oh, it's school today, isn't it?" Dozily he peered out of the window. Above the garden the gulls were riding the air and crying in morose voices to one another. Then the memories of last night came flooding back and his excitement banished all lingering traces of sleep.
"Oh, Jen!" he babbled. "It was amazing—Nelda got married, and to the most disgusting thing I ever saw. She didn't want to—he made her. Then a messenger came from..." He faltered, his sister was hardly listening, and he noticed for the first time how pale she was. Ben frowned—what had she said a minute ago? "What's terrible?" he asked.
The girl hugged herself miserably. "It's Danny," she told him. "He's dead."
"You wish!" laughed Ben.
Jennet shuddered. "No," she cried, "I mean it! He's really dead—killed!"
The boy stopped laughing. "You're serious aren't you?" he gasped. "But how—when?"
"Last night, up on the cliff."
Ben rubbed his head thoughtfully. "When I came back from the caves," he murmured, "there were lots of flashing lights up there—I didn't think, it must have been ambulances and police cars. I was too tired to take much notice."
Jennet huddled into her school jumper. "It said on the radio they're looking for a wild animal," she intoned with macabre fascination, "some big cat, escaped from a circus or zoo. Danny must have been in a really bad way if they think that—I never liked him, but even so..."
"A lion or tiger loose round here!" Ben breathed. "Imagine."
"Poor Miss Wethers," tutted his sister, "she was in a dreadful state before. Because she went round to the Turners' last night she thinks it's her fault Danny was out so late. She's gone off to open the post office now to keep herself busy, but you should have seen her, Ben—she's been through a whole box of tissues already."
"I wish Aunt Alice was here," the boy murmured.
Jennet walked to the door. "I'll put your breakfast out for you," she said. "It's getting late, hurry up."
Quickly the boy slipped on his uniform then opened the window. Leaning out he could just see a line of fluorescent tape cordoning off an area of the cliff side. Hastily he averted his eyes, he hadn't liked Danny but to be so interested in his death seemed morbid.
Presently he ran downstairs to the kitchen. Jennet had put a bowl of cereal out for him and, despite his growling stomach, the thought of his tormentor's demise squashed his appetite.
"I don't feel well," he said.
Jennet shrugged. "I know what you mean," she admitted, "I couldn't face any either—hello, here's Miss Wethers again. She looks worse than before."
With a jangling of keys the front door was meekly opened and the postmistress entered, blowing her nose. Edith was wretched. Never had she known such a day, the effect on her nerves was horrendous. When she thought that only last night she had said such cruel things about that poor boy to his parents, she felt faint. How could she have been so wicked? It made her feel partly responsible for this distressing tragedy.
Her eyes were red raw and her spectacles splashed with tears. She had thought it would do her good to go to work and keep occupied but there she had heard even more terrible news. Snivelling into a sodden tissue, she groped into the kitchen and plumped down on a stool.
"Oh Jennet!" she whined. "I can't stand it! I'm all worn out—what a beastly day this is!"
"Have you closed the post office again?" the girl asked sympathetically. "Couldn't you face it?"
She received a series of vigorous nods as the woman's vocal cords were too choked to answer. Eventually she blubbered, "That lovely old gentleman, found outside his house—poor, dear thing. He was so polite." And she blew her nose so hard that the tissue was blasted to shreds.
Ben raised his head, an unpleasant thought stealing over him. "Who do you mean?" he asked.
Edith bit her lip. "Oh Benjamin!" she wept, floundering for a way to tell him. "It's Mr Roper—he's... he's gone to heaven dear."
The boy staggered from his seat, "NO!" he shouted. "NO!"
He pushed against the table and the cereal bowl went smashing to the floor.
"Ben!" Jennet cried as her brother dashed from the kitchen and fled upstairs.
"Let him go," Edith advised in between her sniffles, "poor boy—I think it would be best if you both stayed off school today. Oh I really don't know what to do. I tried to ring Alice but the London number she gave me is quite dead—I can't get any answer from it. What a harrowing morning!"
Ben yanked open the door to his room then hurled himself on to the bed and buried his face in the pillow.
"No," he wailed, "not him
, not Mr Roper!"
For some time he wept, aching with grief and sorrow. He had loved that lonely old man. He was like a grandfather to him and now—like his parents—had been wrenched out of his life. It was as if he wasn't allowed to make friends or be part of a family—everyone he met was snatched away—first Mum and Dad, then the foster parents who didn't want him, now Nelda was forbidden to see him and finally this. Even Jennet was acting strangely these days.
"Why?" he howled, empty and isolated. "Why?"
Rolling over, the dejected boy stared in anguish at the ceiling—then he remembered the fireworks.
Hastily, he dragged the tin from under the chest of drawers where he had stashed it yesterday afternoon. They were extremely precious to him now, a parting gift from that kindly old man.
Reverently, he removed the lid and gazed within—a riot of colour met his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, taking each of the brightly patterned fireworks out and examining them in turn. There were Roman candles, Vesuvii, a Catherine wheel, two golden fountains, a snowstorm, traffic lights and at the bottom, two packets of sparklers, one coloured—the other white.
They were a marvellous present, a celebration of their friendship in fiery bursts of stars and the tears that now rolled slowly down the boy's face were no longer bitter. They sprung from his memories of pleasant afternoons in the old man's front room and brimmed with the sad knowledge that such times were now over.
"I won't forget you," he said softly.
The peppery smell of gunpowder was strong on his fingers and Ben noticed that a quantity of black grains had leaked into the tin, collecting on a lining of brown paper that covered the bottom.
Curiously, the boy lifted the paper out and discovered that it was actually a flat parcel. Unwrapping it carefully he found inside a bag of faded crimson velvet. The material was musty, smelling of incense and a wild idea reared in his mind.
Holding his breath, he untied the neck of the bag and pulled out the treasure within.
At once he realised what Mr Roper had given to him—here was the second guardian of Whitby, and he gazed at the ancient thing in amazement.