The Spook's Mistake Page 6

  'Its lair was a cave right under the lake shore. It dragged its victims up onto a rock shelf and fed at leisure. So I dug down into the cave from the bank above. It was a sight straight out of a nightmare. Its lair was full of bones and corpses – rotting flesh heaving with maggots, together with other more recent bodies emptied of blood. I'll never forget that stench. I waited for that ripper for three days and nights until it finally arrived with a fresh victim. It was too late to save the fisherman but I finished the ripper off with salt and iron.'

  'When Mr Gilbert met us at the canal, he said you'd gone north to deal with a body found in the water that had been drained of blood like two others before it. Was that the victim of a ripper? Is there another one at large?'

  Arkwright stared through the window as if deep in thought and there was quite a delay before he answered. 'No, it was a water witch. Their numbers have been increasing lately. But she was well away by the time I arrived. She'll strike again no doubt, and we'll just have to hope that she takes her next victim a little closer to home so that I'll have time to hunt her down. But it's not just rippers and water witches we have to watch out for. There are skelts to beware of . . . 'Ever heard of a skelt?' he asked me.

  I shook my head.

  'It's very rare and lives in crevices, either submerged or close to water. Instead of a flexible tongue, a long hollow bony tube protrudes from its mouth. The tube's sharp and pointed at the end so the creature can suck up the blood of its victims.'

  'That sounds awful,' I said.

  'Oh, it is,' replied Arkwright. 'But that foul creature's sometimes a victim too. It's occasionally used in water-witch rituals. After it's taken the blood of its victim – one chosen for it by the witches – draining him slowly over a period of days until he breathes his last, the witches dismember the skelt and eat it alive. The blood magic gained is thrice that obtained by the witch draining the victim directly.'

  Arkwright suddenly stood up and reached across the sink to seize the big knife on the window ledge. He brought it back to the table.

  'I killed a skelt once using this!' he said, placing it before me. 'That blade's got a lot of silver in the alloy, just like the blade on my staff. I took the skelt by surprise and cut its limbs off! A very useful weapon, that. I also caught a young one near this canal less than five years ago. Two in five years suggests that they're increasing in number.'

  By now we'd finished our breakfast so Arkwright eased his chair away from the table and patted his belly. 'Did you enjoy the fish, Master Ward?'

  I nodded. 'Yes, thanks, it was really good.'

  'The leg of a water witch would be even better,' he said. 'You might get to try it before your six months is up.'

  My jaw dropped and I stared at him in astonishment. He ate witches?

  But then he burst out laughing. 'Just my sense of humour, Master Ward. Even roasted to perfection I wouldn't touch a witch's leg with a barge pole. Mind you, my dogs wouldn't be so fussy – as you might find out one day!'

  I wondered where he kept his dogs. I'd neither seen nor heard them.

  'But it's water witches that are the worst problem in these parts,' Arkwright went on. 'Unlike other witches they can cross water – especially stagnant water. They can stay under the surface for hours at a time without breathing; they bury themselves in the mud or marsh, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to walk by. Would you like to see one, Master Ward?'

  In the summer the Spook and I had been to Pendle and fought the three main witch clans there. It had been hard and we'd been lucky to survive so I'd had my fill of witches for a while. It must have shown on my face, because when I nodded, Arkwright gave a little smile.

  'You don't look very enthusiastic, Master Ward. Don't you worry. She won't bite. I've got her safe and sound, as you'll soon see! I'll give you a tour of the mill and show you the witch, but first let's sort out your sleeping arrangements. Follow me!'

  He left the kitchen and I followed him up the stairs and into the single bedroom with the bare mattress. I thought he was going to confirm that this would be my room, but instead he dragged the mattress from the bed.

  'Let's get this downstairs!' he said briskly, and together we carried it down to the kitchen. That done, he went back up, returning immediately with a bundle of sheets and blankets.

  'They're a bit on the damp side,' he said, 'but they'll soon dry out in this kitchen and then we'll get them back up to your room again. Well now, I've got a few things to do upstairs, but I'll be back within the hour. In the meantime, why don't you write up your first lesson on water witches and skelts? You have brought your notebook with you?'

  I nodded.

  'Well, go and get it then!' he ordered.

  Sensing his impatience, I rummaged in my bag and brought the notebook back to the table, along with my pen and a small bottle of ink, while Arkwright went upstairs.

  I wrote up everything I could remember about my first lesson and wondered what Arkwright was doing for so long upstairs. At one point I thought I heard him talking to someone. But after less than an hour he came down, and as he passed by, I smelled wine on his breath. Then, holding a lantern aloft and gripping his staff in his left hand, he led the way into the room I'd first entered.

  Apart from the absence of the candlestick, which I'd taken into the kitchen, it was just as before: a chair in each corner, crates and empty wine bottles, the solitary table and three boarded-up windows. But the brighter light from the lantern revealed something I hadn't noticed previously.

  To the right of the outer door was a trapdoor. Arkwright handed his staff to me, bent down, and with his free hand grasped the iron ring and pulled it open. Wooden steps led down into the darkness and there was the sound of the stream rushing over its bed of pebbles.

  'Well, Master Ward,' Arkwright said, 'usually it's safe enough but I've been away from home for six days so anything could have happened in the meantime. Stay close – just in case.'

  With that, he started to descend and I followed him down into a deeper gloom, carrying his staff, which was far heavier than the ones I was used to. A stink of damp and rotten wood assailed my nostrils, and I found myself standing not in a flagged cellar, but in mud on the bank of the stream. To our left stood the huge arc of the static waterwheel.

  'I thought I heard that wheel turning last night,' I murmured. I was sure it hadn't really turned and was all part of the strange haunting; something that had happened in the past. But I was curious and half hoped that Arkwright might tell me what was going on.

  Instead he glared at me and I could see the anger rising red in his face. 'Does it look like it's capable of moving?' he shouted.

  I shook my head and took a step backwards. Arkwright cursed under his breath, turned his back on me and led us under the mill, bowing his head as he walked.

  Soon we came to a square pit and Arkwright halted with the toes of his big boots actually hanging over its edge. He beckoned me forward and I stood at his side but kept my own toes well clear. It was a witch pit with thirteen iron bars so there was no danger of falling in. That didn't mean you were entirely safe though. A witch could reach up through the bars and grasp your ankle. Some were very fast and strong and could move faster than you could blink your eye. I wasn't taking any chances.

  'A water witch can burrow, Master Ward, so we have to thwart that. Although you can only see the top row of bars, this is effectively a cage in the shape of a cube with the other five surfaces buried in the earth.'

  That was something I was already familiar with. The Spook used that type of cage to confine lamia witches, which were also adept at burrowing.

  Arkwright held the lantern out over the pit. 'Look down and tell me what you see . . .'

  I could see water reflecting the light, but at the side of the pit was a narrow muddy shelf. There was something on it but I couldn't quite make it out. It seemed to be half buried in the mud.

  'I can't see it properly,' I admitted.

  He sighed impatiently and hel
d out his hand for his staff. 'Well, it takes a trained eye. In bad light you could step on a creature like this without realizing it. It would fasten its teeth into you and drag you down to a watery grave within seconds. Maybe this'll help . . .'

  He took the staff from me and slowly lowered it, blade first, between the two bars directly above the shelf before jabbing suddenly downwards. There was a shriek of pain and I caught a glimpse of long tangled hair and hate-filled eyes as something flung itself off the ledge into the water, making a tremendous splash.

  'She'll stay down at the bottom for an hour or more now. But that certainly woke her up, didn't it?' he said with a cruel smile.

  I didn't like the way he'd hurt the witch just so that I could see her better. It seemed unnecessary – not something my own master would have done.

  'Mind you, she's not always that sluggish. Knowing I'd be away for quite a few days, I gave her an extra shot of salt. Put too much into the water and it'd finish her off, so you have to get your calculations right. That's how we keep her docile. Works the same way with skelts – with anything that comes out of fresh water. That's why I have a moat running around the garden. It may be shallow but it's got a very high concentration of salt. It's to stop anything getting in or out. This witch here would be dead in seconds if she managed to escape from this pit and tried to cross that moat. And it stops things from the marsh getting into the garden.

  'Anyway, Master Ward, I'm not as soft-hearted as Mr Gregory. He keeps live witches in pits because he can't bring himself to finish them off, whereas I do it just to punish them. They serve one year in a pit for every life they've taken – two years for the life of a child. Then I fish them out and kill them. Now, let's see if we can catch a glimpse of that skelt I told you I'd captured near the canal . . .'

  He led the way to another pit almost twice the size of the first. It was similarly covered with iron bars but there were many more of them and they were far closer together. Here there was no mud shelf, just an expanse of dirty water. I had a feeling that it was very deep. Arkwright stared down at the water and shook his head.

  'Looks like it's lurking near the bottom. Still docile after the big dose of salt I tipped into the water. It's best to let sleeping skelts lie. There'll be plenty of opportunity to see it before your six months is up. Right, we'll take a walk around the garden now . . .'

  'Does she have a name?' I asked, nodding down at the witch pit as we passed.

  Arkwright came to a halt, looked at me and shook his head. There were several expressions flickering across his face, none of them good. Clearly he thought I'd said something really stupid.

  'She's just a common water witch,' he said, his voice scathing. 'Whatever she calls herself, I neither know nor care! Don't ask foolish questions!'

  I was suddenly angry and felt my face redden. 'It can be useful to know a witch's name!' I snapped. 'Mr Gregory keeps a record of all the witches that he's either heard of or encountered personally.'

  Arkwright pushed his face very close to mine so that I could smell his sour breath. 'You're not at Chipenden now, boy. For the present I'm your master and you'll do things my way. And if you ever speak to me in that tone of voice again, I'll beat you to within an inch of your life! Do I make myself clear?'

  I bit my lip to stop myself answering back, then nodded and looked down at my boots. Why had I spoken out of turn like that? Well, one reason was that I thought he was wrong. Another was that I didn't like the tone of voice he'd used to speak to me. But I shouldn't have let my anger show. After all, my master had told me that Arkwright did things differently and that I would have to adapt to his ways.

  'Follow me, Master Ward,' Arkwright said, his voice softer, 'and I'll show you the garden . . .'

  Rather than leading the way back up the steps to the front room, Arkwright walked back towards the waterwheel. At first I thought he was going to squeeze past it but then I noticed a narrow door to the left, which he unlocked. We strode out into the garden, I saw that the mist had lifted but still lingered in the distance, beyond the trees. We made a complete inner circuit of the moat; from time to time Arkwright halted to point things out.

  'That's Monastery Marsh,' he said, jabbing his finger towards the south-west. 'And beyond it is Monks' Hill. Never try to cross that marsh alone – or at least not until you know your way around or have studied a map. Beyond the marsh, more directly to the west, is a high earthen bank that holds back the tide from the bay.' I looked around, taking in everything he said. 'Now,' he continued, 'I want you to meet somebody else . . .'

  That said, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a long, piercing whistle. He repeated it, and almost immediately, from the direction of the marsh, I heard something running towards us. Two large wolfhounds bounded into view, both leaping the moat with ease. I was used to farm dogs but these animals had a savage air about them and seemed to be heading directly towards me. They had more wolf in them than dog, and had I been alone, I'm sure they'd have pulled me to the ground in seconds. One was a dirty looking grey with streaks of black; its companion was as black as coal but for a dash of grey at the tip of its tail. Their jaws gaped wide, teeth ready to bite.

  But at Arkwright's command, 'Down!' they halted immediately, sat back upon their haunches and gazed up at their master, tongues lolling from their open mouths.

  'The black one's the bitch,' Arkwright said. 'Her name is Claw. Don't turn your back on her – she's dangerous. And this is Tooth,' he added, pointing to the grey. 'Better temperament, but they're both working dogs, not pets. They obey me because I feed 'em well and they know not to cross me. The only affection they get is from each other. They're a pair all right. Inseparable.'

  'I lived on a farm. We had working dogs,' I told him.

  'Did you now? Well, you'll have an inkling of what I mean. No room for sentiment with a working dog. Treat them fairly, feed them well, but they have to earn their keep in return. I'm afraid there's little in common between farm dogs and these two though. At night they're usually kept chained up close to the house and trained to bark if anything approaches. During the day they hunt rabbits and hares out on the edge of marsh and keep watch for anything that might threaten the house.

  'But when I go out on a job, they come with me. Once they get a scent they never let it go. They hunt down whatever I set 'em on. And if it proves necessary, on my command they kill too. As I said, they work hard and feed well. When I kill a witch, they get something extra in their diet. I cut out her heart and throw it to them. That, as your master will already have told you, stops her from coming back to this world in another body and also from using her dead one to scratch her way to the surface. That's why I don't keep dead witches. It saves time and space.'

  There was a ruthless edge to Arkwright – he certainly wasn't a man to cross. As we turned to walk back to the house, the dogs following at our heels, I happened to glance up and saw something that surprised me. Two separate columns of smoke were curling upwards from the roof of the mill. One must be from the stove in the kitchen. But where was the second fire? I wondered if it was coming from the locked room I'd been warned about. Was there something or someone up there Arkwright didn't want me to see? Then I remembered about the unquiet dead that he allowed the run of his house. I knew he was a man who was quick to anger and I was pretty sure that he wouldn't want me prying, but I was feeling very curious.

  'Mr Arkwright,' I began politely, 'could I ask you a question?'

  'That's why you're here, Master Ward . . .'

  'It's about what you put in the note you left me. Why do you allow the dead to walk in your house?'

  Again an angry expression flickered across his face. 'The dead here are family. My family, Master Ward. And it's not something I wish to discuss with you or anyone else, so you'll have to contain your curiosity. When you get back to Mr Gregory, ask him. He knows something about it, and no doubt he'll tell you. But I don't want to hear another word on the matter. Do you understand? It's something I just don
't talk about.'

  I nodded and followed him back to the house. I might be there to ask questions, but getting them answered was another matter!