The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

by Robin Jarvis

  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 ga
ve 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 laborious 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.

  Flourishing a crowbar, he marched up to the great door and thrust one end deep into a slender crevice inches above the handle. Then, the man pushed against the iron bar with all his might. The wood let out a long, protracted groan as splinters flew and the metal teeth sank in—deep and brutal. The door quivered as though in pain and Nathaniel's hands tightened about the crowbar—his knuckles shining white and his face alive with impatience.

  "Yield!" he snarled. "Open for me, the ordinary laws do not apply here. This is a public place where all are welcome—yes, even I. Allow my entry!"

  At that the lock was torn from the wood and the door shook violently. Nathaniel gave it a contemptuous kick and it swung slowly inwards.

  Stopping only to pick up the bag, the man entered—still brandishing the crowbar in his hand.

  Within the church of St Mary all was shadow. Even in the daytime the interior, like most things in Whitby, was striking and unusual but now all was forbidding and severe. The odd arrangement of pew boxes were like square cages which penned in beasts of pitch and shade and the walls seemed carved from jet. A brooding atmosphere filled the place, as if it were alive and watching, inflamed at this irreverent intrusion. The very air was tense and so overpowering that Nathaniel had to lean against the wall before he could bear to venture any further.

  "Settle yourself, Crozier," he murmured, "it's nothing you haven't encountered before. Ancient sites of worship develop a certain... presence, you know that." He ran his hand over the stone and half-closed his eyes. "This is most holy ground," he whispered. "Even before the Christ was venerated here it was a sacred shrine. The land remembers and old stones are charged with that knowledge. You must tread with care this night."

  He took a few, tentative steps towards the central aisle and the noise of his movement resounded throughout. At the far end, upon the altar the gold cross gleamed coldly and Nathaniel hesitated, but only for an instant.

  "Enough," he spat, "I will pass." And with that he pushed deeper into the church. At the altar he gave a malicious sneer before turning aside and passing between a row of pews.

  The crypt of St Mary's was simply a small area in one corner reached by a cramped flight of wooden stairs. It was perhaps the oldest part of the building and contained many artefacts, found during excavations, which dated from the original Saxon church. In a tiny box, mounted on the wall, there was even a piece of the actual wattle and daub used in that earlier building. All around there were irregular chunks of carved stone, sections of pillars and slabs of floor tiles—these had been pushed against the walls in a wonderfully haphazard jumble. From a large window the dim moonlight slanted in, touching the stonework and illuminating the descriptive labels pinned to the boards. Peculiar triangles of darkness were cast between the stones, angular slices of night that wove through the carvings and spiked over the floor.

  Down into this crowded level Nathaniel came. Glancing briefly at the biblical extracts painted on panels that covered the walls, he put the bag and crowbar on the ground. He could sense the accumulated age of everything in there, the long silent centuries lay heavily over all and he breathed deeply, relishing their history.

  Nathaniel delved into his pocket and brought out the plaster fragment he had taken from the Banbury-Scotts' house. Holding it in the shaft of moonlight, he studied the four strange signs inscribed there. All day long he had examined them, trying to decipher their meaning and apart from the mark of Hilda
only one other was now clear to him.

  "Somewhere here," he told himself, "somewhere in all this disorganised lumber. I must have read the sign correctly—it can be nowhere else." He spread out the fingers of his left hand and quickly ran them over the stones at the front of the pile. "Nothing," he cursed. "Come on, come on, Nathaniel has come for you my little beauty."

  Irritated, he drew himself up and held the plaster fragment in both hands. "Must I jab you out of hiding?" he growled. "Then so be it." He closed his eyes and began to chant under his breath.

  A strange stillness descended over the church and the moon disappeared behind a cloud. All outside noise was extinguished, the faint glare that the night absorbed from the lights of the town was snuffed out and an impenetrable blackness seeped in. Nathaniel continued to chant, his voice gradually rising.

  A breeze began to stir, the brass chandelier which hung from the ceiling slowly began to swing and a hymn sheet fluttered from the three-tiered pulpit. Still Nathaniel chanted, and the air churned about him. The warlock's hair streamed in the growing gale, his coat flapping wildly and the rush of the wind filled his ears as it tore around the church. The chandelier was spinning madly now and hymn sheets flew through the air like flocks of rustling birds.

  "Unveil yourself!" Nathaniel cried. "Show yourself to me! I, Nathaniel Crozier, High Priest of the Black Sceptre, command you!"

  Suddenly there came a terrible crash as the cross on the altar was hurled to the ground. The gale screamed up the aisle and the broken door slammed shut with a tremendous, thundering bang.

  The warlock opened his eyes, his face pulled taut with the raging storm he had summoned. He opened his hands, stared down at the plaster fragment and smiled.

  One of the symbols inscribed there was glowing, a golden light beat out of it, pulsing with life and energy. He held it above his head and the magical rays poured down.

  "Excellent," he laughed. "Now, where are you my little rabbit? Pop out of your bolthole."