The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

by Robin Jarvis

  Mr Parks came running after him. "There's nothing over here of much interest," he gabbled. "Wouldn't you rather see the path made entirely from terracotta tiles flown in from Mexico?"

  "Is this where Mrs Cooper went after she had torn up the house?" Nathaniel asked striding up to the heavy door of the outbuilding.

  The estate agent confirmed that it was but failed to see why he was so interested in a converted pig pen when there were so many other more interesting sights to view.

  Nathaniel ignored him and pushed the door open. It looked like a whirlwind had visited the place. The high, stacked shelves had been thrown to the floor and all the nails and screws which had been carefully stored in tins were scattered everywhere.

  "Dear, dear," tutted Mr Parks, "God knows what was going through her mind—sheer lunacy. Grice used to love sitting in here, he was so, well shed-proud, I suppose. Funny, he's never been back you know, won't come near the place. Poor man, it must be awful to have your private world violated in this manner. Would you look at that wall, hacked to pieces, plaster everywhere. Mind you don't get it on your clothes, Mr Crozier."

  Nathaniel picked his way through the rubble. The near wall had certainly been ripped open. Most of the plaster that had covered it now lay at his feet and he ran his fingers across the bare stone it had revealed. There was a long trough cut into it. Nathaniel's eyes narrowed and he immediately stooped to search amongst the dusty heaps of broken plaster.

  "Well, really!" sniffed Mr Parks, stepping back as Nathaniel stirred up a cloud of dirt. "What are you doing?"

  The other man did not reply but continued to rake through the debris. Mr Parks stepped outside to escape from the dust, a handkerchief over his mouth.

  And then Nathaniel found it. He knew there had to be something and there it was. From the piles of rubbish he brought out a fragment of plaster as large as his hand. One side was smooth, except for four strange symbols that had been gouged into it. A look of understanding passed over his face.

  "Oh, Roselyn," he breathed, "how could you have made such a fatal blunder? Did you really give no heed to these?" He blew the remaining dirt off and inspected the fragment more closely. "The central sign is the mark of Hilda," he observed, "but what of the three which circle round it? Why were you so blind?" He could hardly contain his excitement. This confirmed all his researches and made every risk worthwhile. Quickly he slipped it into his pocket and stepped back outside.

  Mr Parks was busy brushing stray flecks of dust off his suit. When his client rejoined him the estate agent eyed him uncertainly. "What were you searching for in there?" he inquired.

  "Oh," Nathaniel shrugged, "I thought I saw a rat dart from the rubbish—I thought there might be a nest."

  Mr Parks was appalled and pulled a horrified face. "A rat!" he repeated. "And you were scrabbling after it?" He shivered and covered his mouth with the handkerchief once more.

  "I think I've seen all I need to for the moment," Nathaniel continued. "Thank you for your time, it has been a most instructive morning."

  "Yes... erm." Mr Parks had not quite recovered himself. "I'll show you out, then." His client, however, was already marching towards the house. "Rat nests," the estate agent muttered incredulously, "I ask you."

  ***

  Jennet lay the book on her knee and ate a biscuit. It was blissfully quiet and peaceful as both Ben and Miss Wethers were out and she was alone in the cottage. Her brother had gone to see a friend of Aunt Alice's; not long ago Mr Roper had promised to help make a guy for bonfire night and the boy was keeping him to his word. The postmistress, after spending the entire day fussing over one thing and another, had discovered that she had run out of tissues. She had dithered for a full half-hour before deciding whether to leave Jennet on her own or not and by the time she had left the girl was worn out.

  Munching on the chocolate digestive, Jennet wondered if she could stand a full four days of Miss Wethers. The thought crossed her mind that it was the postmistress who needed looking after, not Ben and herself.

  After some minutes she turned her attention back to the book. Desert Amour was a romantic novel that Miss Wethers had brought with her. Jennet usually had no time for that sort of literature, but today she made an exception and was surprised to find herself enjoying it. Mrs Rodice, the ghastly woman who ran the hostel that she and Ben had once stayed at, used to read books like this too and Jennet could understand why. It was just the sort of escapism she craved; the heroine, Veronica Forthgood, was a dark-eyed beauty who continually suffered from the machinations of her half-sister Sonia. It was Sonia, of course, who had tricked the hero, Maximilian Strong, into joining the Foreign Legion, and Jennet was just reaching the point where Veronica had finally found him, delirious under the desert sun, when a knock sounded at the front door.

  Jennet considered letting whoever it was go away, but the thought occurred to her that it might be Ben back early from Mr Roper's. Reluctantly she put down the book and left the parlour to investigate.

  "Good afternoon," said Nathaniel, once she had opened the door, "isn't it a glorious day for November?"

  Jennet tried to conceal her pleasure at seeing him.

  "Mr Crozier, isn't it? Can I help you?"

  "Please," he grinned, "call me Nathaniel." His deep black eyes shone out at her and Jennet felt weak under their unwavering glare. "I seem to be locked out of the Gregsons'," he lied. "As you know, I'm lodging with them for a time. When I went out I left the spare key in my room and now it appears they have gone out also." He shrugged his shoulders like an apologetic child. "So," he mumbled shyly, "I wonder if you would be so kind as to invite me into your house for the time being—until they return."

  "Oh," said Jennet uncertainly, "I shouldn't. You see there's only me here and Aunt Alice told me..."

  Nathaniel nodded, he knew all the time that she was alone, but said, "Then I wouldn't dream of bothering you any further. I quite understand and won't be in the least bit offended. I'll just sit on the Gregsons' step until they return."

  He began walking back to the next door neighbours; but Jennet called after him, "No don't do that! I'm sure it's all right. You were talking to Aunt Alice this morning so she obviously knows you, it isn't as though you were a total stranger. Please, come in."

  Nathaniel crossed the threshold into Miss Boston's cottage—that was boringly easy.

  Jennet showed him into the parlour and the man looked about with interest. He was particularly taken with the books on the shelves and spent a few moments with his back to the girl, intently reading the spines. "Your aunt has an eccentric collection," he remarked, "an awful lot of mumbo jumbo here—does she really believe in this stuff? I hope such ridiculous faith doesn't run in the family. You seem far too intelligent for that supernatural nonsense."

  Jennet shook her head. "She isn't really my aunt," she confided, "Ben and I just call her that, and no, I don't really believe in it—or I try not to. I don't even read the horoscopes in the paper."

  "Very wise," he commented. "And what sort of thing do you read?"

  "Oh, you know," she said airily, "all kinds. There are some history books up there I find quite interesting and..." Her voice faltered, for Nathaniel was glancing at the armchair where Desert Amour lay open in all its shameless glory.

  Jennet felt herself blush. "That's Miss Wethers'," she blurted hastily. Nathaniel gave her a knowing look and she knew he guessed the truth—how embarrassing!

  "I see," he said mildly, "so, the postmistress is a fan of Davina Montgomery. She is not alone in that, over half the women in Britain are addicted to such fiction. It is no crime to seek escape—how else could they cope with the drudge of their daily existence?"

  "That's what I was thinking!" said Jennet.

  "Were you indeed?" he asked. "Then you know there is no harm in dreams. Fantasies are as necessary to us as breathing—without them we should all perish. Each and every one of us must chase after our desires and embrace them. Do you not agree?"

&nb
sp; "Yes."

  He held her with his smile and Jennet found herself wanting to know all about this fascinating man. But his next question took her by surprise.

  "Where are your parents?" he asked.

  She looked down at the carpet before answering, "They... they died two years ago."

  "That must have been very difficult for you."

  "It was—still is."

  "You have been very brave, I see that a great weight has been put on your shoulders. Your eyes tell me this; a great deal can be learnt from the study of one's eyes—they are the mirrors of the soul. When you meet someone for the first time, what is it you look at—his nose, his hair, his mouth? When two lovers stare across a table at each other, what are they staring at? It is the eyes, those small windows that betray the inner self. Nothing can hide in them. Of all the separate, unreliable pieces of mankind they are the most honest. Tell me, Jennet, what do you see in mine?"

  Jennet was nervous; she wanted to look and yet deep down some basic instinct was warning her not to. "Beware," it cautioned her, "beware."

  "Look at me, Jennet," Nathaniel pressed.

  Slowly she raised her head and stared into his eyes. "They... they're so dark," she whispered, "black and cold, like splinters of black glass. I'll cut myself on them—oh!" she tried to wrench herself free but it was too late, Jennet was lost.

  Nathaniel clicked his fingers in her face, the girl did not even flinch. "Sit down," he told her.

  At once Jennet obeyed, she was completely in his power now and had no will of her own.

  Nathaniel threw Miss Wethers' book on the floor and made himself comfortable on the armchair. "Tell me, child," he demanded, "tell me what you know of Rowena Cooper."

  And so, Jennet told him everything. She spoke like an automaton, in a dead monotone and, with great detail, related the events that had occurred between Miss Boston and his late wife. How Rowena had searched for the magical staff of Hilda, murdering several of Aunt Alice's friends in the process and how she had at last found the staff, wielding it to the peril of everybody. When she had finished Nathaniel was not at all pleased.

  "How could she have been such a fool?" he snapped. "Why did she not listen to me? The staff was not what I was after! How could she allow herself to be tricked—and by such a one as that senile amateur?" He rose from the chair and paced around the room, seething with fury until at last he turned back to Jennet. "And the staff of Hilda," he cried, "where is it now? Does Alice Boston possess it?"

  "No," droned Jennet's reply, "it was taken from this world altogether."

  The news seemed to be a great relief to Nathaniel and he relaxed. "Good," he said with a satisfied, unpleasant smile, "then that leaves the way clear. Thank you, my child, a most interesting little conversation, I can see you shall be very useful. It is perhaps unfortunate that your brother has the sight, even more worrying is the fact that it was he who discovered the moonkelp. Now he has the favour of the Lords of the Deep—that is a sobering circumstance. Still, I trust I can achieve my goal—one eight-year-old thorn in my side is something I can handle. There have been worse dangers. All will be well—for me at least."

  Jennet rubbed her eyes, she had the most excruciating headache.

  "Of course, when I was digging in Egypt, my group had the most awful case of jippy tummy I've ever experienced. Quite frightful it was. The location might have been exotic but all they saw for the first three days was the inside of the loo."

  Dizzily, she stared across at the man in the armchair. He was mildly sipping a cup of tea and chatting away as if they had known each other for years. The pain was easing a little now, she had never suffered from headaches before. Try as she might she could not recall what they had been talking about—she could not even remember making the tea.

  "Are you all right?" asked Nathaniel with concern. "You look almost green. I've been rabbiting on, haven't I? Forgive me, one tends to forget how boring these anecdotes can be to other people. Dear me, here's me trotting on about Nairobi, Peru and Egypt without even noticing the effect it's having on you."

  "I'm sorry," Jennet apologised, "it's just a headache, it's clearing now. Please—go on."

  He smiled at her. "You are kind," he said, "but I've taken up too much of your time already. The Gregsons must be back by now. Thank you so much for inviting me in. You have been a most enchanting hostess." Rising from the chair he gave the girl a formal bow. Jennet felt the butterflies flutter inside—Mr Crozier had to be the politest man she had ever met.

  "Let me see you out," she offered eagerly, running to the front door.

  "Au revoir," he told her, taking hold of her hand and kissing it.

  Jennet laughed with delight and opened the door.

  Nathaniel stared past her at the yard beyond. "Hello there," he called.

  The girl turned in time to see Miss Wethers give him an answering wave with her handbag. "Why, hello to you, Mr Crozier," she cried, "are you coming in for tea?"

  "No, thank you," he replied, "this young lady has seen to that already. Now I must be getting back to the Gregsons', I have some important work to see to."

  "But I thought you were on holiday!" exclaimed the postmistress.

  "Alas no," he returned, "would that I were. Now excuse me, ladies." Flashing his beguiling smile, Nathaniel left them and rang the bell of the neighbour's house. The door opened and Mrs Gregson hurriedly let him in.

  "Dear me," Miss Wethers tutted, "Joan Gregson doesn't look very well. Did you see how pale she was? The fault of that layabout husband, no doubt. Come on, Jennet, Mr Crozier may have had a cup of tea but I haven't. I'm fair gasping for one."

  They went indoors and Jennet put the kettle on the stove. "He's a nice man, isn't he?" she remarked happily.

  Miss Wethers took some time before answering, as the cellophane on the packet of tissues refused to open. "Mr Crozier?" she eventually piped up from the hallway. "Yes, he is."

  "He told me to call him Nathaniel."

  Edith forgot about the tissues and wandered into the kitchen. "Did he?" she asked, a look of concern troubling her face. "Well, perhaps it would be better if you refrained from using his Christian name, Jennet dear."

  "Why?"

  "Well, it just isn't proper—and you shouldn't have invited him in like that. We hardly know the man."

  "But he's so... charming."

  Miss Wethers let out a small gasp of surprise. That word had struck a chord in her somewhere.

  "What is it?" asked Jennet puzzled.

  "I don't know," Edith replied quietly, "I've just remembered something my mother once told me. I haven't thought about it for years, but..."

  The girl waited to be enlightened but the postmistress went searching for the tissues, flustered and feeling naked without one tucked in her sleeve to fiddle with. When she came back in the kitchen, Jennet was still waiting.

  Edith dabbed her nose in distraction and relented. "A long time ago," she began haltingly, "when my father was alive and before I was born, times were bitterly hard. The only employment was fishing and my father would be at sea for days on end. Well, at one such time my mother was alone in bed and there was a lot of noise coming from the yard below her window. You've seen where I live, it's pretty much the same as here with a yard around which all the other cottages are built."

  Miss Wethers stared out of the window as she remembered the story the way her mother had told it to her. "There were two terrible men at that time in Whitby—awful troublemakers whom no captain wanted aboard. You can only guess how they made a living, but what money they did have they drank or gambled away. Unfortunately they lived in the same yard as my parents and every so often, on fine nights, would hold their revels out in the open—this was a particularly fine evening.

  "A few other ruffians were also there, drinking heavily and getting soused. All evening my poor mother heard them get drunker and drunker. Imagine how afraid she must have been, a frail woman totally alone with no one to call to should she need help. And
then the gambling began. A pack of cards was produced and a table hauled from somebody's kitchen. At the sound of it being dragged across the yard, my mother dared to peek through the curtain and saw them all stupid with drink. She put a chair against the door and crept back into bed, pulling the blankets up under her chin, wishing my father would return.

  "The rabble below continued playing cards well into the night and their voices grew heated with vile curses. My mother never got a wink of sleep and then something happened which made her blood run cold.

  "On the wall, above the bedhead, a red light began to glow. She was scared witless and couldn't move an inch. Well, this light grew larger until it reached the ceiling and then a man stepped right out of it."

  Miss Wethers paused for breath, her eyes wide with some of the fear her mother had felt all those years ago. "He was strikingly handsome, I remember her telling me. Dressed beautifully—all in black, one of those old-fashioned dinner suits with the tails and a large, silk bow tie. Anyway off the bed he steps, tugging at his golden cufflinks.

  "My mother could only stare at him and finally she stammers, 'Are you the Devil?' Well, this man he just gives her a little smile and says, 'Don't worry, it's not you I've come for.' Then he turns and walks towards the window where he melts into nothingness again.

  "At that point my mother passed out and when she awoke the next morning discovered that a fight had broken out between those two men, one of them had pulled out a knife and stabbed the other to death." Her voice trailed off, lapsing into a soft whisper. "And that's why she always used to warn me about charming gentlemen—because the devil himself is a charming man."

  Miss Wethers became silent as she recalled all the barriers the memory of this story had thrown in the way of any men friends she might have had in her life. When she drifted back to the present she found that Jennet was staring at her as though she had gone mad.

  "Oh my," muttered Miss Wethers forlornly, "I don't really know what I mean by telling you all this. It was just a story my mother used to tell me that's all, probably wanted to keep me with her after father passed on and then when she was ill... and yet I can picture her even now, relating that tale, her face whiter than the pillows she was propped up on."