Читать книгу The Whitby Witches - Robin Jarvis - Страница 7

II

EURYDICE

‘I knew your dear mama’s aunt,’ said Miss Boston, above the buffeting wind.

Jennet sat on the tombstone and hugged her knees. ‘Great Aunt Connie?’

Miss Boston held on to her hat and nodded. ‘She was one of my pupils,’ she said. ‘A good student but never made any use of her education – shameful waste.’

‘And you say she wrote to you about Ben and me?’

‘Yes, over the years we have kept a correspondence going. She was very fond of your mama, you know, and when she heard about the accident, well . . .’

They had climbed the hundred and ninety-nine steps to the top of the East Cliff in order to see the abbey, only to find it was too late and the man in the office had gone home. Still, there was plenty to see. At the top of the steps was St Mary’s church, a solid building surrounded by ancient graves whose stones were nearly worn smooth. They had settled themselves on a large, mossy tomb while Ben ran off to play among the stones and lean into the strong wind.

There was a magnificent view of the town below. On the West Cliff, directly opposite, bedroom lights were flickering on and the glitter of the arcades was becoming more noticeable in the gathering dusk. Dark night clouds were moving in from the sea and the sun was pale and low, catching a last, weak glint from the tiled roofs before it set.

Miss Boston, wrapped in a tweed cloak, stared at the horizon and said, ‘Of course, if Constance had not been in that home she would have taken you and Benjamin in herself.’

Jennet spoke into the darkening sky, tilting her head back and sweeping the hair out of her eyes. ‘She couldn’t have coped with Ben and me, she’s too old.’

Miss Boston snorted. ‘Too old? My dear girl, Constance is a mere sapling compared to me.’

‘But Aunt Connie’s seventy and walks with a frame.’

Miss Boston puckered her face up and asked, ‘How old do you think I am, child?’

Jennet looked at the figure blanketed in sage-green tweed. Only the face was visible and it was difficult to put an age to it. Miss Boston’s skin was lined, yet one grin could banish the wrinkles. Only the tufts of white woolly hair poking out beneath the hat gave any real clue to her age.

‘Seventy-five?’ Jennet ventured uncertainly.

Miss Boston closed her eyes and raised her head. ‘I am ninety-two,’ she solemnly informed her. ‘Don’t be alarmed, dear – some of us do survive for that length of time.’

‘But you’re not frail or anything,’ Jennet declared in surprise.

‘As to that,’ Miss Boston lifted a finger to her nose in a gesture of secrecy, ‘I have little methods all my own. Old age is terribly unfair. Usually either the mind or the body succumbs. Hospitals and nursing homes are filled with shambling near cadavers who still possess all their marbles; intelligent people who can’t go to the bathroom by themselves or even get out of bed, in some cases. Then there is the other variety: the sprightly gibberers, I call them, senile but with perfectly healthy bodies. What a cruel joke old age is, to be sure.’

A flock of gulls soared out over the sea, spreading their wings and hanging on the air. Miss Boston followed their course with interest. ‘They’re not supposed to be able to fly over the abbey, you know,’ she told Jennet. ‘Legend says that if they try, they are overcome and fall to the ground. There they must pay homage to St Hilda, the founder of the abbey, until she releases them.’

‘That’s silly,’ said Jennet.

Miss Boston agreed. ‘I suppose so, but it is a lovely notion, don’t you think? St Hilda was a remarkable woman, after all.’

They sat in silence for some time, listening to the wind rushing through the grass and hearing Ben’s squawks as he chased the gulls.

‘Why now?’ asked Jennet, breaking the calm. ‘Why didn’t you send for us before? Why wait over two years?’

The old woman put her hand on Jennet’s and explained. ‘After the accident, Constance wrote to me and told me you had gone to stay with your father’s brother.’

‘Uncle Peter, yes – and Aunt Pat, his snotty wife.’

‘You were with them for just three months, were you not?’

Jennet stared at the ground and mumbled, ‘Aunt Pat said she couldn’t cope with . . . well, with us.’ She hesitated before adding, ‘Ben was having a bad time, and there were other things.’

‘I see.’ Miss Boston turned to watch Ben playing. ‘So they put you both into care.’

‘Yes, then we were put with another family who actually wanted to adopt Ben and me, until . . . well, it didn’t work out that way.’

‘No.’ Miss Boston narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. ‘Nor did it work out with three other families after that. You asked why I had not sent for you before now. My dear child, I was hoping that you would find a good home with a family who would care for you.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Alas, it was not to be, so I decided to enter the fray and applied a little pressure here, called in some old favours there. Well, here you are; stuck with a terrible old woman like me. I’m sorry, but I could not stand by and let you stay in that hostel until you were sixteen.’

Jennet shifted uncomfortably on the tombstone. This woman had no idea why they had been unable to fit in. She looked round for Ben and suddenly saw that he was dangerously near the cliff edge. ‘Will he be all right there?’ she asked in alarm.

‘I think your brother has brains enough not to go leaping off cliffs,’ remarked Miss Boston. ‘Of course, he might get blown off. The wind is notoriously strong up here.’ She raised a hand and called the boy to them. ‘Do you know it gets so violent sometimes that it actually lifts the lead off the church roof ? Last winter the vicar had to cancel the service because of the noise.’

Ben began to make his roundabout way towards them. Miss Boston cleared her throat and said to Jennet, ‘I think I ought to tell you something before he rejoins us. It’s only fair you should know. You’ve a sensible head on your shoulders, too sensible perhaps at times.’

‘What should I know?’

‘I received a letter from Mrs Rodice.’ Miss Boston pulled a sour expression. ‘Nasty, spiteful letter it was too. It concerned Benjamin. What an unpleasant creature she must be.’

The colour drained out of Jennet’s face and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘What did the letter say?’ she asked shakily.

Miss Boston snorted her contempt. ‘She is obviously an ignorant woman – unbalanced too, I shouldn’t wonder. She accused Benjamin of certain things which I refuse to believe. I threw the wretched piece of paper on the fire – wish I could do the same to her.’

The girl glanced up and found Miss Boston looking at her steadily. Now was the time to tell her everything. If that was the end of their stay in Whitby, then so be it; at least she could put the old woman straight. Lord knows what the Rodice had put in that letter.

‘Ben has dreams,’ she stammered. ‘Sometimes he has them in the daytime and he gets muddled up. He used to think Mum and Dad came to see him after the accident. That – that’s not all. He used to tell some of the other kids at the hostel funny stuff that frightened them. We had a new girl come who used to live with her gran before she died and Ben told her that he could see an old woman sitting next to her when she was in the TV room, stroking her hair. Apparently that’s what this grandmother used to do. Yvonne started to wet the bed after that and the other kids used to look at Ben like he was some kind of freak.’

‘Go on,’ Miss Boston prompted her gently.

‘Well, that’s why we never settled down with the foster families. With Aunt Pat, the last straw came during one of her posh dinner parties. Ben came running downstairs saying he’d seen Mum. Aunt Pat went dead red; she hated the embarrassment of it, she didn’t want anyone to think she had a retarded relative in the house. I heard her and Uncle Peter talking one night – their room was next to mine and the walls were thin. She said she couldn’t stand it any more, and Uncle Peter had to go along with her. It was horrible listening to them discussing us like that. I wanted to shout out that I could hear them but I never did.

‘The other families were the same. One lot were really religious and thought Ben was possessed or something and the others just looked at us funny.’

Miss Boston frowned. ‘Yes, I can see that some people might not feel comfortable with that sort of thing – it unnerves them and upsets their established ideas of the universe.’

‘It got really bad, though, at the hostel,’ Jennet continued. ‘About three weeks ago Ben goes and tells the Rodice he’s seen a man on the stairs. Course, there was nobody there but Ben describes the man to her and says he told him his name was Donald. She got all angry and shook Ben, calling him a liar. He had bruises on his arms where she’d grabbed him. That frightened her, that did – they’re not supposed to hit us, see. Well, after that she had as little to do with us as possible and I actually saw her shudder when Ben pushed past her once.’

Miss Boston put her arm around the girl and tried to comfort her. ‘Well, it won’t bother me, I assure you, dear. Benjamin can natter to an army of ghosts and I shan’t mind – I’m nearly one myself, after all. Tell me, do you ever see anything like that?’

Jennet shook her head. ‘No. At first I thought Ben was making it all up to annoy Aunt Pat, but he wouldn’t have kept it up this long, would he? I’ve told him to stop but he won’t.’

‘Of course not, dear – he cannot. It is the most natural thing in the world for him to see these things. I believe Benjamin is a very special child. He has “the sight”, a marvellous gift which should be encouraged. He must not feel that it is something to be ashamed of or he will lose it. Yes, he is special – and so too are you, Jennet. Throughout all this you have stood by him and protected him, even though you did not fully understand yourself. You are a very brave girl.’

At this point Ben sauntered up to them. ‘Come here, Benjamin,’ said Miss Boston. ‘Get under my cloak and I shall tell you a tale. You, too, Jennet.’

The children huddled up to the old woman and sheltered from the bitter wind like chicks under their mother’s wings.

‘Do you see that?’ she asked them, nodding to a tall, thin cross. ‘That is Caedmon’s cross.’

‘Who’s he, then?’ Ben wanted to know.

‘Ah,’ Miss Boston explained, ‘Caedmon was a cowherd, long before the Normans came. He used to tend the cattle on the plain back there when the abbey was just a monastery. He was painfully shy and awkward, poor fellow. In the winter when fires were lit and songs were sung around them, all the other servants of the monastery would do their party pieces, except Caedmon. He felt so unhappy because he could not sing that he would retire early and his friends would shake their heads and feel sorry for him.

‘Then, one night, a vision came to him in a dream. It was an angel, which bade Caedmon sing of the glories of God the Maker. Do you know, when he awoke he felt confident as never before and began composing his own verse. Caedmon is recognised as the first English poet.’ And Miss Boston ended her tale with a satisfied sigh.

‘That’s soppy,’ sneered Ben, greatly disappointed.

‘You impudent rascal,’ cried Miss Boston with mock severity. ‘And what kind of stories do you like, may I ask?’

‘Scary ones – with monsters,’ he whispered conspiratorially.

Miss Boston’s face became grim as she shook her head and gasped, ‘You mean you don’t know? Have you come here unprepared? Did you not pack your garlic?’

Ben squirmed happily on the tomb, shaking his head. ‘Why?’ he giggled.

‘Because, child,’ she moaned in a horrified voice, ‘the most dreadful monster ever created came ashore at Whitby – Dracula himself, King of Vampires!’

‘He didn’t!’

‘Oh yes he did, young man – he changed himself into a great black dog and jumped from the doomed ship Demeter as she ran aground, just down there.’ Miss Boston paused for dramatic effect and they all stared down at the rough sea. ‘Now,’ she said in a bright, cheerful manner, ‘it’s getting colder – let us return home. Don’t pretend to be a vampire, Benjamin, you haven’t got the cloak for it.’ And she flapped her own, although she resembled a large green chicken more than a bat. Benjamin, however, was still staring down at the rocks below. He seemed to be watching something.

The old woman squinted down and saw a blurred shape move quickly over the stones. ‘So,’ she whispered to herself, ‘he sees the fisher folk also.’ A slow smile spread over her face.

Jennet waited for them at the top of the steep flight of steps. ‘Did Dracula really live here?’ she asked nervously.

Miss Boston chuckled. ‘Dracula is but a character of fiction. His creator, Bram Stoker, came here in 1890, a dozen or so years before I was born. Mind you, the black dog was a grisly creature of legend he borrowed from the locals – the Barguest. As big as a calf with fiery red eyes, it was supposed to stalk through the streets of Whitby in the dead of night. Anyone who heard it howling was doomed.’

Jennet shivered. ‘That’s horrible, Miss Boston.’

The old lady sighed. ‘Really, Jennet, you must stop calling me Miss Boston; I gave up lecturing a long time ago. My name is Alice.’

‘I can’t call you that. It doesn’t sound right.’

‘Then how about Aunt Alice? Will that do?’

Jennet simply smiled in reply and slid her hand automatically into Aunt Alice’s.

The seagulls woke Ben up; for a moment he wondered where he was and then he remembered. Hastily, he pulled his clothes on and ran downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Jennet finishing off a boiled egg.

‘Those seagulls are a bit loud, aren’t they, Jen?’ he said chirpily.

Jennet blinked at him wearily. ‘It’s seven in the morning,’ she answered grumpily. ‘I’ll never get used to this.’

‘Where is she?’ asked Ben, heaving himself on to a stool.

Jennet emptied the eggshell into a pedal bin and rinsed her plate under the tap. ‘She went out ten minutes ago. Says she always goes for a walk before breakfast.’

‘Where’s mine?’ demanded Ben hungrily.

His sister poured some milk into a bowl of cereal and passed it to him. Ben picked up a spoon; it was an odd colour and he sniffed it suspiciously.

‘It’s nice here, isn’t it, Ben?’ said Jennet as she watched him munch his breakfast.

‘Um,’ he agreed, with his mouth full.

‘I hope we can stay here for a while; she’s a nice old lady. I feel a bit funny calling her “Aunt” though.’

The latch on the front door rattled and Aunt Alice stepped in looking windswept and rosy. She stayed in the hall to hang up her hat and coat.

‘Don’t like these spoons, Jen,’ hissed Ben, waving his in the air.

‘Shush! They’re probably made of silver and very old – behave.’

Aunt Alice entered, undoing the top button of her blouse. ‘There,’ she puffed. ‘I like to climb the hundred and ninety-nine steps, whatever the weather. Blows the sleepy cobwebs away, it does.’ She bent down and opened the door of an old-fashioned refrigerator. ‘Now,’ she mumbled, ‘will it be kippers today or scrambled eggs? Kippers it is!’

Ben liked the smoky smell of the kipper but the taste was too strong for him – he preferred fish fingers, and said as much. Aunt Alice roared that he would get no fish fingers from her as long as he stayed in Whitby. He could eat fresh fish or none at all.

Twenty minutes later, she was dabbing the corners of her mouth with a hanky and praising the art of a Mr Bill Fortune. ‘Well now, children,’ she addressed them as she pushed the plate away, ‘what do you intend to do today?’

They shrugged and looked at her blankly. ‘Explore?’ suggested Jennet. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Why should I mind, child? I hope you enjoy yourselves. I shall want to know what you have discovered when you return.’

‘Oh,’ said Jennet disappointedly, ‘aren’t you coming too?’

Aunt Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Certainly not, I have far too much to do. You can look after yourselves – you won’t get lost in a small town like this.’ She rose and scraped the kipper bones into the pedal bin, then washed her plate with Ben’s breakfast things. ‘Now I think you ought to brush your teeth, don’t you?’

Jennet was the first one down from the bathroom and she took her coat from the peg in the hall. ‘When should we come back, Aunt Alice?’

‘Oh, whenever you like, dear. I have to go out myself.’

‘But how shall we get in if you’re not here?’

Aunt Alice came into the hall, dangling a key to the front door between her fingers. ‘A spare,’ she said.

Jennet thanked the old woman. It had been a long time since anybody had trusted her like this and she appreciated it.

‘Just come back when you get hungry,’ beamed Aunt Alice. ‘I should be here by lunchtime.’

Ben struggled into his coat while Jennet wiped the toothpaste from his mouth, then all three left the house. The weather looked promising. Aunt Alice waved goodbye to them and set off purposefully towards the West Cliff.

It was still early and Jennet and Ben wandered through the narrow streets, gazing into shop windows which were filled with pieces of Whitby jet. It had been fashioned into all sorts of jewellery – rings, pendants, bracelets and tie-pins. Jennet looked longingly at a pair of jet earrings and stroked the glass dreamily. Ben tutted in disgust and walked away, muttering about the dullness of shops.

Then he spied a joke shop. He pressed his face against its windows and uttered little yelps of delight. It had everything, from black-face soap to horrific rubbery masks. There were sugar cubes that turned to worms when placed in tea and ghastly sets of false teeth. He wondered what he could afford – maybe Aunt Alice would buy him something. He drooled over the possibilities until his sister came to look for him.

Eventually the children came to the harbour and watched some late fishing boats return. A fresh, salty tang was in the air and they ran across the bridge to see the fish auction. It was being held in a large covered area on the West Cliff. Wooden crates filled with silvery fish were stacked into high piles, whilst an official in a white coat gabbled away, faster than they believed possible.

Jennet wrinkled her nose at the strong fishy smell. Ben peered into one of the crates and tried, unsuccessfully, to outstare the dead fish, until a gruff man in a black coat shooed them away.

They walked along the Pier Road, but as it was only half past eight they could not go into the lifeboat museum. Instead, they chased each other along the sandy beach. The morning wore on, shops opened and the holiday-makers strolled out of hotels and bed-and-breakfasts.

Jennet ran up to the green door and searched in her pockets for the key. Outside Aunt Alice’s cottage was an old barrel which overflowed with geraniums and above the door itself hung a curiously shaped stone with a hole worn into it.

‘Mornin’,’ said a voice suddenly. Jennet dropped the key in surprise.

Leaning against one of the other doors in the yard was a thick-set, dark-haired, surly-looking woman. A cigarette was balancing on her bottom lip, and when she spoke it stayed in place as though it were glued on. Her face showed disdain as she looked Jennet up and down. She folded her bare, fleshy arms and said, ‘You one of them what’s come to stay wi’ her?’

Jennet nodded, mesmerised at the acrobatic skill of the cigarette.

‘Given you a key as well, ‘as she? Me an’ my Norman know what she gets up to, her an’ them friends of hers. Oh, she thinks she’s so clever, bossing everyone about.’ The woman blew through the curling blue cigarette smoke. ‘Anyway, you make sure you keep your hands to yourself, you hear me? I know your sort, lass – don’t you come thievin’ round here. She might be daft as a brush, but I’m not.’

Jennet was so taken aback by the woman’s outburst that before she could think of anything to say the dreadful creature had gone back into her house and slammed the door. Jennet stuck her tongue out and turned the key in the lock.

Inside there was no sign of Aunt Alice. Jennet took off her coat, wondering whether she was in the parlour, having a nap. She knocked but there was no answer, so she turned the brass handle and peeped in.

The parlour was papered a rich burgundy and lined with shelves full of dusty volumes. A large round table dominated the centre of the room and in the corner, a tall grandfather clock monotonously ticked the time away.

Jennet went into the kitchen and decided to make a cup of tea to await the old lady’s return. Just as the kettle began to whistle, there came a furtive knock on the front door.

‘You took your time, Ben,’ she began. ‘What happened to –’

But when the door opened she saw that the new arrival was not her brother after all. Another old lady blinked in surprise at her.

‘Oh dear,’ said the stranger. ‘I suppose you must be Janet.’

‘Jennet,’ the girl corrected.

‘Of course. I’m Miss Droon – a friend of Alice’s. Is she in?’

‘No, but she should be back soon.’

‘Shall I come in, then, and wait? Thank you.’ And she barged through to the kitchen, where the kettle was whistling for all it was worth and steaming up the windows.

Miss Droon was an odd-looking woman. Her hair was dark grey and very wiry, like a pan scrub. She wore thick black-rimmed spectacles and a chunky blue sweater which was covered in short, white hairs. As she passed by, Jennet noticed a strong whiff of cats. This was rather appropriate, because Miss Droon had whiskers; they stuck out above her top lip and bristled along her chin. It was quite a struggle to keep from staring.

Miss Droon made a pot of tea and helped herself to the Gypsy Creams. She planted her bottom on a stool and tapped the table distractedly; evidently there was something on her mind.

‘I’m sure Aunt Alice won’t be long,’ said Jennet, noticing the hairs that had fallen to the floor from Miss Droon’s sweater.

‘I hope you’re right, girl,’ she returned, ‘for Eurydice’s sake.’ She looked out of the window desperately.

‘Eurydice?’

‘Yes. She’s wandered off again and she could go into labour any minute.’ Miss Droon wrung her hands together anxiously.

Jennet had visions of some woman roaming round Whitby, ready to give birth. ‘Maybe she’s gone to the hospital,’ she suggested hopefully.

Miss Droon looked at her as if she were mad and opened her mouth. But at that moment, the front door opened and in came Aunt Alice with Ben. They had met in Church Street and Ben was giving her a detailed account of the morning’s activities. ‘Then we saw a statue of that Captain Cook and two huge whale bones made into an arch and I found a fossil thing on the beach – see?’

‘That’s an ammonite, Benjamin; there are lots of them round here.’

Miss Boston removed her hat before the mirror in the hall. ‘Sounds like you two have been busy,’ she said. ‘You and Jennet must be ravenous. Oh,’ and she paused in the kitchen doorway, ‘hello, Tilly. What can I do for you? I’ve just been over to Pru’s, looking for that wretched book she cannot find – said she’d seen you yesterday. Everything well?’

‘It’s Eurydice!’ Miss Droon burst out.

‘Again!’ whistled Aunt Alice. ‘How many this time?’

‘No, she’s gone off and they’re due any minute.’

‘How tiresome,’ tutted Miss Boston, winking at Jennet. ‘And you would like me to find her for you, is that it?’

‘Please, Alice – I’ve brought Binky along.’ Miss Droon pulled a well-chewed woollen mouse from her pocket. ‘I just can’t bear to think of her coping alone.’

‘She probably wanted to get away from your ham-fisted interference, Tilly dear. Do help yourself to biscuits, by the way.’

Miss Droon guiltily licked the crumbs from her moustache. ‘Oh, Alice,’ she pleaded, ‘there may be very little time.’

Miss Boston sighed and filled a jug with cold water. ‘Very well. Come into the parlour, Tilly – and don’t forget Binky. Oh, Jennet, could you and Benjamin stay here for a while and be very quiet?’ The children nodded, greatly puzzled. ‘Excellent. Now, in you go, Matilda.’

Ben looked at Jennet. ‘Who’s that, then?’ he wanted to know.

‘A friend of Aunt Alice’s, I think,’ she replied.

‘What have they gone in there for?’

Jennet brushed hairs off the stool lately occupied by Miss Droon and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think she’s a bit loopy.’

‘What did Aunt Alice want with the water, Jen? There’s no plants in the parlour.’

‘Maybe she’s going to pour it over Miss Droon’s head,’ she answered sarcastically. ‘How do you expect me to know?’

The sound of voices filtered through the parlour door, so the children kept quiet and listened.

‘Do shut up, Tilly,’ boomed Aunt Alice. ‘I need to concentrate.’

‘What can they be doing?’ breathed Jennet.

After a short while the door was opened and Miss Droon bustled out. Aunt Alice called after her, pulling back the curtains, ‘It’s either the old barn again or that empty house on Hawsker Lane – sorry, Abbey Lane. Yes, I’m certain she’ll be there.’

‘I must go to her! Poor little Eurydice,’ cried Miss Droon, fumbling with the front door latch.

Aunt Alice emerged from the parlour and remarked wryly, ‘I’d hardly call her “little” in her condition.’ But Miss Droon had fled from the house.

‘Oh, confound the woman,’ said Miss Boston. ‘It’s no good. I shall have to go with her. Do you children want to come? It isn’t far, but perhaps you need your lunches right away?’

Ben began to say that he did but Jennet elbowed him into silence and said of course they would go.

‘Good,’ said Aunt Alice, putting her hat back on. Jennet watched her and Ben leave the house whilst she put her coat on again. Then, on a sudden impulse, she ran into the parlour.

A sweet, heavy scent laced the air; on the table was the jug of water and an empty black lacquered bowl. Jennet went up to it and ran her fingers around the rim. It was wet.

‘So, Aunt Alice filled the bowl with water, drew the curtains, then poured the water back into the jug,’ she said slowly to herself. ‘But why? And what is that sickly smell?’ Jennet was mystified; how could all these things, not forgetting Binky, lead to Aunt Alice’s conclusion that Eurydice was in some empty house?

She left the parlour and ran outside, closing the front door behind her. Ben and Miss Boston were in Church Street before she caught up with them.

‘The Blakelocks used to live in the house but they moved out two years ago and went to live in Wakefield, I believe,’ Aunt Alice was telling Ben. ‘The house has been empty since then. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to buy it now, too run-down and probably overrun with fieldmice. Perfect for Eurydice, though.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Jennet.

‘Oh, didn’t she tell you? Eurydice’s a cat.’

Jennet laughed. ‘No wonder she gave me an odd look when I mentioned the hospital.’

‘Yes,’ continued Aunt Alice, ‘Tilly already has twelve of the perishing things, most of them Eurydice’s offspring. Too popular with the local toms she is – Eurydice, not Tilly. But will she get her seen to? Not on your life. There’s hardly a stick of furniture in her house that hasn’t been used either as a claw sharpener or – well, a convenience. The place positively reeks.’

The empty house they were heading for was just off the lane that ran behind the abbey, so up the hundred and ninety-nine steps they had to go. Halfway up they encountered a breathless Miss Droon. She was finding the climb rather too strenuous.

‘Oh my,’ she wheezed, ‘I hope you’re right, Alice – I don’t want to have staggered up these ruddy steps for nothing.’

Finally they reached the summit and walked through the graveyard to get on to Abbey Lane. The stately ruin of the abbey towered up on their right as they followed the small road which circled round it.

‘There it is,’ said Miss Boston, pointing to a long, two-storied building. It was an ugly house with mean little windows, quite secluded. Jennet shuddered at the thought of living there; at night it would be pitch dark for there were no street lamps. It was a dismal, lonely place.

‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Aunt Alice. ‘Look at that sign. Somebody’s actually bought it.’

The ‘For Sale’ notice which had stood outside the house for two years now bore a garish red stripe proclaiming ‘SOLD’, for all the world to see.

‘They haven’t moved in yet, though,’ Miss Droon observed. ‘Let’s slip in and get Eurydice.’

Miss Boston opened the garden gate, which creaked and groaned in protest. ‘Dear me,’ said the old lady, ‘what a state this is in.’

Ben was the last through the gate, and studied a grimy nameplate nailed on to the wood as he went through. ‘The Hawes,’ he read aloud.

The garden round the house was wild: grass and weeds had choked the flower beds and only the taller roses had survived. The house itself was shabby and dark, with several of the downstairs windows boarded up.

‘Such neglect,’ commented Miss Boston sadly. ‘And look at the path, completely overgrown. We shall have to wade through – mind the nettles, children.’

Miss Droon tottered behind, calling out, ‘Eurydice, Eurydice – come on darling, there’s a love, now. Oh, no, maybe she’s had them already. What shall I do?’

Jennet looked back at the overgrown path thoughtfully. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she began, ‘if no one’s been here for ages – how come someone’s bought the house? I mean they can’t have been to see it, can they?’

‘Good heavens, child,’ said Miss Boston, ‘you are sharp today. How curious; I wonder who can be moving in?’

‘Might be council, Alice,’ suggested Miss Droon. ‘Perhaps they’re going to knock it down and rebuild.’

‘I shall go round to Olive and Parks the estate agent this afternoon and solve this mystery,’ Miss Boston decided. ‘I’ll see if they’re going to rebuild or not.’

Ben’s voice called to them from around the back. He had found the kitchen door and the wood was rotten. There was a large hole at the bottom.

‘Eurydice,’ cried Miss Droon, going down on her knees and calling through the gap. ‘Puss, puss.’

‘It’s no use calling,’ Aunt Alice told her, ‘she won’t come. I certainly wouldn’t. The poor thing doesn’t want to have you fussing about and being a nuisance. You always annoy her when she’s expecting, Tilly.’

‘But I can’t leave her here,’ wailed the crouching Miss Droon.

‘Shall I go in?’ asked Ben. ‘I could easily squeeze through there if we made the hole a bit bigger.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Boston sternly, ‘that’s breaking and entering.’

‘Oh, let him go in, Alice. You never liked Renie Blakelock anyway.’

‘That’s hardly the point, Matilda. The property no longer belongs to her.’

Miss Droon clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘But as it’s going to be knocked down anyway, I can’t see what’s the harm.’

‘We don’t know that for certain. That was just your idea.’

Miss Droon countered with her master stroke. She looked squarely at Aunt Alice through those thick glasses and said, ‘What about that umbrella Renie borrowed and never returned to you – your mother’s, wasn’t it?’

Miss Boston relented at once. ‘On the other hand,’ she said stiffly, ‘it is an emergency and if Benjamin really doesn’t mind . . .’

Ben pulled away more of the crumbling door and wriggled through. A dingy, yellow-brown light filtered through the filthy kitchen windows. The room was bare and the noise of his movements echoed around as he searched for the troublesome cat. He looked in the low cupboards and out of curiosity inspected the drawers also, but they only contained a broken fish slice and quantities of brown paper bags. Eurydice was not in the sink either.

In the hall, the exposed floorboards moved as he walked on them; they had warped and no longer fitted properly. He put his head round the door of the front room, but only a collection of empty tea-chests stood morosely in the middle of the gloom.

The whole house smelt damp and musty. Ben shivered. What a horrid, dank place it was – he found it hard to believe that someone had actually lived there. The entire house reminded him of a large dungeon and that made him think of other things, Whitby’s most frightening visitor for one.

‘Eurydice, Eurydice,’ he called out feebly as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. Then he heard a noise. ‘You would have to be up there, wouldn’t you.’ He gritted his teeth and hoped it was the cat who had made the noise and not some vampire opening the lid of its coffin. He tried to control his rising panic, but it was some minutes before he was able to put his foot on the first step.

The stairs still possessed their carpet – too worn to be worth removing, it was damp and spotted with black mould. Ben took hold of the banister and crept very slowly up the steps.

It was dark on the first floor, for there was no landing window and all the bedroom doors were shut. There were five doors; he opened the nearest. Only a bathroom. The next led into an empty pink bedroom. As he went, Ben left the doors open behind him to illuminate the landing; in the growing light he noticed a square opening in the ceiling.

‘Must be the attic,’ he whispered to himself. He did not like the look of that deep black hole. It made him uneasy as he passed beneath it. ‘I hope you’re not up there, you daft moggy,’ he mumbled as he quickly opened the next door. Another bedroom, blue wallpaper this time. Then a toilet, and finally a room done out in lime stripes. This was full of cardboard boxes and old yellowing newspapers which the mice had chewed.

Ben tiptoed over to the boxes. There was a sudden movement and he stepped back in alarm. A furry white head popped up.

‘Eurydice!’ sighed Ben, relieved. The cat miaowed crossly, staring at him with one green eye and one blue. ‘Come on, puss,’ he said soothingly. Eurydice let him stroke her and Ben slipped his hand down to her tummy. At least she hadn’t had the kittens yet. Then he frowned, something was wrong. As he tickled the cat’s stomach, she rolled over and he discovered that she only had three legs. What a peculiar animal.

He picked up the box she was in and Eurydice glared at him. ‘It’s all right, puss,’ he said, carrying her out of the room. Only then did Ben begin to wonder; who had shut that door in the first place?

On the landing, Eurydice grew agitated and her ears pressed flat against her skull. She began to hiss and spit, but not at Ben. The boy turned cold. As he passed under the dark loft opening, all the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and rose. He felt sure something was up there, watching him from the shadows – the same something that could close bedroom doors.

He made for the stairs quickly but as he ran down them two at a time, he chanced to turn back and was horrified to see a small dark figure drop silently to the landing and begin creeping after him.

Ben bolted for the kitchen and thrust the box through the gap, scrabbling frantically after it.

‘Look at your clothes,’ sighed Aunt Alice; ‘all dusty and cobwebby.’

‘Eurydice, you naughty girl,’ scolded Miss Droon, ‘don’t do that again. I shall lock you in my room from now on.’

In the sunlight Ben’s fear seemed irrational; he must have imagined the whole thing. Either that or the figure was one of his ‘visitors’, although he had never felt frightened in their presence before. He decided not to mention it to anyone.

‘What was it like in there?’ Jennet asked him.

‘Smelly and damp,’ he replied, shaking the dust out of his hair.

‘Must have been cold too,’ she added. ‘You’re covered in goosepimples.’

Miss Boston put her arm round him and said, ‘This young man has earned his dinner – come on. Tilly, do stop messing with that wretched cat and make sure you do keep an eye on it until the kittens are born.’

‘Eurydice has only got three legs,’ Ben told his sister.

‘Really?’ asked Jennet, staring at the two ears which bobbed up and down above the box.

‘She lost one when she was a kitten herself,’ crooned Miss Droon dotingly. ‘A window sash broke and the frame crushed her leg beyond repair. The vet had to amputate to save her, poor darling. Now I can’t take her anywhere near the vet’s – simply goes berserk. Don’t you, Eurydice darling?’

‘And that’s why she’s always expecting,’ said Miss Boston, ‘and of course why she’s so popular with the toms.’

‘Because she has three legs?’ asked Jennet. ‘I don’t see the connection.’

Aunt Alice laughed wickedly. ‘Well, she can’t run as fast as the other lady cats.’

The children roared and Miss Droon looked away.