The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis
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First published in Great Britain in 1991 by Simon & Schuster Young Books
This edition published 2017 by Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text copyright © 1991 Robin Jarvis
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First e-book edition 2017
ISBN 978 1 4052 8540 7
Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1775 5
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Map illustration copyright © 2017 Robin Jarvis
Cover and interior illustrations copyright © 2017 Rohan Eason
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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CONTENTS
V A Grisly Catch
VI Cream Cakes and Death
VII The Figure on the Cliff
VIII Knife and Tooth
IX ‘But a Little Time to Live’
X Eurydice Again
XI The Half Child
XII Once in Nine Hundred Years
XIII Struggle at Sea
XIV The Empress of the Dark
Look, look! Down on the sands of Tate Hill Pier; see there, my friend. Three small, strange figures – do you not see them? Listen to them calling to the cliff. Ah, the sound is lost on the wind. But, there, you must see them – they are searching for something. One of them stops and turns to us – its jet-black eyes glare up at me.
It is not quite dawn and the light is poor, perhaps that is why you cannot see. You tell me to come indoors, you say the damp morning has chilled me and take my arm. I glance back; the figures have gone. Can I have seen the fisher folk? The old whalers of Whitby town?
The boats will soon return with their catches. I must speak to no one. I shall let the fisher folk be and try to forget them. Perhaps when I sit by the fire, as my toes uncurl and my head begins to nod, that face shall haunt my dreams.
No, they are but childhood fancies and I am too old. The kettle whistles on the stove and I draw on the pipe which trembles in my shaking hand. Yes, it is a cold morning and I am chilled.
Mrs Rodice perched herself on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips. She was relieved, for two of her more trying charges had left today – she had put them on the train personally. A delicious shudder ran down her spine as she sank her small, irregular teeth into a dunked digestive. This was her favourite part of the day – a special, secretive hour when she could close the door and relax with her Royal Doulton and occasional romantic novel.
Margaret Rodice ran a hostel for children, those whose parents were dead, indifferent or ‘inside’. It was a difficult, demanding role: trying to manage a maximum of sixteen young people while at the whim of the local authority grant policy. If only Mr Rodice had not departed from the world so shortly after their wedding. She wondered how different her life would have been; perhaps there would have been children of her own – even a grandchild by now.
Mrs Rodice rattled the cup on its saucer in agitation and placed them both on her desk. She really must stop dwelling on the past. Donald was a vague shadow from her youth and she rarely thought of him now – up until recently, that is. But now that creepy little boy had gone and she hoped things would get back to normal. Oh, for the run-of-the-mill occurrences: the runaways, the girls who pinched, even (God forbid) nits would be welcome after the turmoil of the last three months.
She rose to peer out of the narrow window and watched the rain streak down over Leeds. After some minutes of contemplating, Mrs Rodice returned to her desk, but refrained from draining her cup. The tea leaves at the bottom would only remind her of the recent troubles.
‘Of course I was right to send that letter,’ she reassured herself. ‘Even if the old bat does know someone on the board, she had to be aware of what she was letting herself in for.’ Mrs Rodice shook her head at the folly of the old woman in question.
‘At her age! I ask you,’ she addressed the table lamp. ‘Well, it won’t last – it never does with them.’ A thin smile twitched her mouth. ‘Still,’ she muttered, shuffling her papers, ‘whatever happens, they’re not coming back here.’
She bent her greying head over the spread of forms and took up her pen purposefully, then with a tut of consternation looked up at the ceiling and groaned. ‘I hope Yvonne won’t wet again tonight.’
Ben stared out of the window and watched the green landscape race by. He pressed his face against the glass and the motion of the train vibrated through his nose.
‘Don’t do that,’ sighed the girl beside him, as she pulled him back to his seat.
The boy squirmed and plucked crumbs of sausage roll from his sweater. ‘Bored, Jen,’ he grumbled.
Jennet fished a comic out of a large blue canvas bag beside her and shoved it under her brother’s nose.
‘I’ve read it,’ he said, without bothering to look.
The girl let