The Whitby Witches 1 - The Whitby Witches (10 page)

Hesper was his daughter. She was also the missing Silas's wife and Nelda's aunt. A kindly soul, everyone liked her—or was it pity they felt? She had married the leering Silas Gull against her father's wishes nigh on two hundred years ago. The more he forbade the union, the more stubborn she had become, and in the end he had relented. But a foul, black-hearted fellow Silas had remained and nothing Hesper could do would ever change that.

She climbed over the rocks with her niece, a battered old oilskin hat perched comically on her head and her light, sand-coloured hair hanging down over one eye as usual. Her face had the texture of a pickled walnut, but the lines that had etched themselves so deeply there were the marks of sorrow and care. To the rest of the tribe she was a tragic figure, solitary and quiet, speaking to none but her family. Even she did not know if she still loved Silas; whatever had first attracted her to him had quickly disappeared. However Hesper's heart was kept aflame by her true passion: her unceasing search for that which could lift the curse from them forever.

Nelda lifted a thick, dripping curtain of weed and a startled crab scuttled into the nearest shade. She looked across at her aunt and shook her head. 'Nothing,' she sighed.

Hesper hitched up the cork lifebelt as it slipped down over her stomach. She was always ready for emergencies: a length of rope was tucked under one arm, two ancient satchels were slung over each shoulder and threaded through the straps of these at her back was a small fishing net attached to a long pole. She wiped her sea-green eyes and scanned the rocks and boulders. She had not had a wink of sleep all night and a wide yawn suddenly split her face in two.

'You should not be out,' Nelda told her. 'You do too much.'

Her aunt scooped up a handful of sea water and splashed it over her forehead. 'Someone must keep the vigil,' she answered resignedly. 'Who else would go out as I? None. There is not one in the whole tribe who will go in my stead.'

Nelda smiled gently. 'That is because they do not believe in what you seek. To them it is a fanciful tale, nothing more. The doom will never be lifted.'

Hesper did not reply. She was accustomed to the ridicule her quest invited, and her faith was never shaken. At this moment, however, she had just noticed a tangled mass of green nylon net in the hollow between two huge boulders. Hesper climbed on to one of the smooth wet rocks and looked down into the untidy mess.

She furrowed her brows and stooped. Was it a trick of the shadows? Beyond the twisted drapes of fishing net and seaweed she thought she saw...

Hesper breathed in sharply. 'Nelda,' she uttered in a fearful voice, 'fetch Tarr at once.'

Nelda frowned, curious to know what her aunt had discovered. She glanced back along the shore to where old Tarr hobbled along, leaning on his staff, and waved for him to hurry. 'What is it?' she asked her aunt, pulling herself on to the boulder.

Hesper's face was pale when she turned round to her niece. 'I said go fetch him,' she said quietly. 'Now.'

Nelda's heart fluttered, while her eyes looked past her aunt into the darkness beyond the netting. Hesper grabbed her shoulders fiercely and pushed the young aufwader off the rock. 'Don't look,' she said in a voice that she was struggling to control.

Frightened, Nelda stared at Hesper, then ran, weeping, to her grandfather.

The net was held down by large, round weights. Hesper leaned over and, with difficulty, hauled some of it away. 'Nine times bless me!' she exclaimed and clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. For there, revealed beneath the chaotic jungle of net and weed, was a body.

Tarr strode up as fast as he could. 'Shut yer blutherin',' he snapped at Nelda. But behind a mask of irritation he too was afraid. What had his daughter found? he asked himself. As he drew near to where Hesper was kneeling, he could hear her cries of despair and saw that she had removed her hat.

'Stay 'ere,' he told Nelda when they reached the rock. 'Tha's too young t'look on what she's found.' With an effort he pulled himself up and gazed down into the hollow. 'Deeps take me!' he gasped.

Hesper clasped his hand and squeezed it tightly. 'I can't bring myself to uncover any more,' she sobbed. 'What if both are in there?'

Tarr's old face hardened, for he had seen death before. Anyway, there was not enough time to run back to the caves for the others. Already the sun was edging over the rim of the world and the gulls were waking. 'Ah'll see t'this,' he said gruffly. 'Get thissen down theer wi' Nelda.'

His whiskered jaw was set like granite and Hesper did not hesitate. Down the rock she slid and held on to her niece, waiting for the worst.

With his staff, Tarr cleared the rest of the netting away to uncover more of the gruesome remains. Grimly he continued, though his face was awful to see. Finally, he rocked back and turned his head from the horrible sight.

Theer's just the one,' he told the others.

Both Nelda and Hesper clung to each other—who was it: Nelda's father or Silas?

Tarr shook his head at them. 'Ah canna tell, 'e's in a reet state.' He shivered and said softly, ''Ed's all battered in, like. 'Is own mother nivver'd know 'im.'

He stretched his legs over the side so that he could drop down beside the body. There was only one way of identifying such a grisly corpse: by the pattern on its jersey. For many years the jersey—or gansey, as the fisher folk called it—was not merely an item of clothing. The arrangement of the ribs and cables upon each was like a family crest. One close look would tell him who it was.

As he bent down to examine the gansey, Tarr could not help seeing the terrible mess above the neck once again. 'Tha's nivver the work o' rocks,' he told himself bitterly. 'Thissun's bin done in.' Ugly images flashed into his head; there must have been a bloody fight between Silas and Nelda's father, Abe. With a trembling hand he rolled the body over—Abe was his son.

'Nah,' he whispered as he inspected the complicated rows, 'them's Gull stitches, reet enough.' Here then was Silas Gull, the black sheep of the tribe—a rascal descended from rogues. There would not be many, he told himself, who would weep over his loss. Only Hesper, perhaps.

Tarr whistled softly to himself as the significance of this discovery sank in. So it was Silas who had been murdered and, from the looks of things, by Nelda's father. A fierce scowl formed on Tarr's face. Tha's in deep, dark waters, Abe lad,' he murmured, 'an' tha canna hide ferivver.'

The heels of Miss Boston's shoes clicked over the beautifully polished wooden floor. She had brought the children to the museum and was thoroughly enjoying showing them round.

Jennet had always grouped museums, art galleries and exhibitions into a great big yawn-making lump. She had only agreed to come along today because she couldn't bear the tension in the house any more, and she prepared herself for a dull and boring morning.

It was with great surprise, therefore, that she discovered the Pannett Park Museum to be a fascinating place, jam-packed with curios and wonders. It was like some magnificent jumble sale of the imagination. Glass cases proudly flaunted their treasures: painstaking models of ships, Victorian dolls, a small Noah's ark with a parade of wooden animals trailing down the gangplank, intricate works in jet, old costumes, a collection of boats in bottles, and a flock of stuffed birds.

Aunt Alice watched Jennet's expressions with satisfaction. They lingered by the display of jet, and the girl was dazzled by the craftsmanship of the tiaras and brooches. The old lady beamed and rubbed her hands together; soon all that unpleasantness would be forgotten. So long as she stuck to her side of the bargain, all would be well. Still, she cast a wistful eye at Ben and sighed: it was a pity the meetings of the circle had to end.

'And here,' she began, bubbling with joy, 'is one of our most wonderful masterpieces—Dr Merryweather's Tempest Prognosticator!' With a flourish of her hands, she introduced a grand glass dome which housed a very peculiar mechanism indeed. At the top were lots of little bells, attached to long strings which hung down into small glass jars about the base.

Jennet looked into the jars and grimaced: they contained revolting furry grubs. Aunt Alice saw her and laughed. 'Leeches,' she informed the girl. 'Apparently those slimy little creatures could tell when a storm was coming and would jiggle about in their jars, causing the bells to ring. Isn't it a marvellous thing altogether?' And she clasped her hands together and heaved a great sigh.

'It's disgusting,' remarked Jennet. 'They could have cleaned the jars out.'

On any normal day Ben would have been fascinated by the mouldy remains of long-dead leeches, but he merely twitched his eyebrows and waited for the tour to end. He had stared at all the exhibits without enthusiasm because his mind was crammed too full of his meeting with Nelda. For most of the previous night he had lain awake, wondering if she would come to the cliff-top the next evening as arranged. He could not bear the painfully slow movements of the clock on the museum wall and threw it a suspicious glance to see if it was working properly.

They left Dr Merryweather's brainchild and wandered round to a scale model of the abbey. Jennet looked at it and realised that something was not quite right. Of course, it showed the building at some earlier time.

Miss Boston's eyes were sparkling as she explained. 'This is how the abbey looked before the great west window collapsed in 1794, and the central tower fell in 1830.'

'Was anyone hurt?' asked Jennet.

'Bless you, no,' Aunt Alice explained. 'Why, nobody ever went there much in those days, except artists and dogs.'

Jennet frowned. 'Dogs?'

'Why, yes. Apparently after the tower collapsed they discovered the crushed body of a large dog under the rubble.'

'How sad, the poor thing.'

Some distance away, Ben licked his top lip and stared down wide-eyed. For the first time that morning his interest was engaged. He had wandered off, leaving his sister and Aunt Alice, for something unusual had caught his eye. In a glass case, all on its own, was one of the most hideous objects he had ever seen: a severed human hand.

It must have been very old, for the skin was dry and grey, but you could still see the fingernails and the wrinkles on its knuckles. A delighted shiver ran down Ben's back. He loved macabre horrors like this.

Jennet and Miss Boston soon joined him. The girl pulled a face and the old lady's chins quivered as she explained what the ghastly thing was.

'A Hand of Glory,' she uttered in a thrilled whisper. 'This unpleasant little item was used as a charm by witches and burglars many years ago.'

'What as?' asked Jennet grimly. 'A back-scratcher?'

Aunt Alice cackled. 'It was believed in those times that this charm, if used properly, could put to sleep an entire household so that a thief could ransack the place without anybody stirring.' She paused and waited for encouragement to continue; there was none, so she rattled on regardless. 'A true Hand of Glory had to be cut from a man while he was still dangling from the gallows. It then had to be pickled and dried and the fingers set alight—' Aunt Alice stopped in midsentence, for Jennet had baulked and was looking ill. 'I'm sorry, dear,' she said in alarm. 'Did I go too far?'

'I think I'll sit outside, if you don't mind,' Jennet said quietly. 'I need some fresh air.'

Miss Boston blinked and assumed her guilt-ridden face. 'Oh dear,' she murmured.

'Tell me more about the gallows,' asked Ben eagerly.

The old lady coughed. 'I think it's time we left too, Benjamin.'

For the rest of the day Ben was restless and fidgety. He drifted about the town like a lost soul, counting the hours till it was time to meet Nelda again. The afternoon dragged on and he was so out of sorts that he totally forgot about visiting the lifeboat museum.

To celebrate their truce, Aunt Alice and Jennet went into a small café for a cream tea. There they met another of the old lady's friends. Mr Roper was a soft-spoken old man, smelling of Brilliantine and mothballs. He pulled his chair over to their table and proceeded to tell them the morning's gossip. Jennet listened to him politely but felt sorry for the old man; he was obviously lonely and had nothing better to do than take part in the scandal-mongering of the Whitby busybodies. Among the useless titbits he divulged was one interesting fact, however—a Mrs Rowena Cooper had just moved into the empty house on Abbey Lane.

Aunt Alice frowned at the news. Surely the house was far too damp and dilapidated to live in. She stirred her tea vigorously and pondered on the character of Mrs Cooper, who was quickly becoming a mysterious figure. She sipped her brew in silence and stared over the rim of her cup out of the window at the passers-by, in case the focus of her thoughts was among them.

At last the evening came. With his heart in his mouth, Ben ran up the hundred and ninety-nine steps and stared about the graves.

There she was, the youngest of the fisher folk, sitting on the same tombstone and staring at the white-crested waves far below. She turned as she heard Ben running towards her and the face he saw was marked with worry and pain.