The Spook's Mistake by Joseph Delaney
Just when we were about to set off, the weather closed in, the west wind driving the rain hard against the hillside so that it drummed on the roof of the cave and encroached into its entrance, at times hissing into the edge of the fire.
'You daft old man,' Arkwright taunted. 'Why on earth choose a cave with a entrance facing the prevailing winds?'
'The cold and wet are good for the soul. Why do you live in a house on the edge of a swamp when you could live more healthily up in the bracing air?' Judd Atkins retaliated.
Anger flickered across Arkwright's brow but he said nothing. He lived there because it had been his parents' house, and now that his mother's spirit was trapped, he couldn't leave them. The hermit probably knew nothing of that, otherwise he would surely not have spoken so cruelly.
Because of the inclement weather, Arkwright decided to stay for one more night and then head north towards Coniston at first light. While Judd built up the fire, Arkwright took me fishing in the pouring rain. I thought he'd use a rod or a net but he had a method he called 'tickling'.
'Never go hungry if you can do this!' he told me.
It consisted of lying on his belly on the wet river bank with his arms plunged into the cold water. The idea was to tickle the belly of the trout so that it moved backwards into your hand, at which point you flipped it up onto the grass. He showed me the technique but it took a lot of patience and no trout came even within reach of my hands. Arkwright caught two, however, which he soon cooked to perfection. The hermit simply sipped more of his broth, which meant that Arkwright and I got a whole fish each. They were delicious and soon I was feeling much better.
But then it was more fighting with staffs. I got off lightly, ending up with just one bruise on my arm, but Arkwright fought me to a standstill and I was exhausted. So I slept well in that cave. It was certainly more restful than the mill.
By dawn the rain had ceased and we set off without further delay, heading north towards the lakes.
The Spook had certainly been right about the scenery in this part of the County. As we reached Coniston Water and skirted its western tree-lined shore, all about us were sights to delight the eye. The slopes to the east were forested with deciduous and coniferous trees, the latter providing greenery to brighten the sombre late autumn day. The cloud was high so there was a spectacular view of the mountains to the north, and the rain had evidently been falling as snow up there, causing their peaks to gleam white against the grey sky.
Arkwright seemed in a slightly more cheerful mood so, tired of the long silence – he hadn't spoken a word since we'd left the hermit's cave – I risked a question.
'That mountain ahead, is that the Old Man of Coniston?'
'That it is, Master Ward, as you should well know – you'll be familiar with it after our study of that map yesterday. Quite a sight, isn't it? Far higher than the fells behind Mr Gregory's house. It attracts the eye, but sometimes places of equal significance don't stand out so much. See that bank over there?' he said, pointing across to the eastern shore of the lake.
I nodded.
'Well, that's the spot where I slew the Coniston Ripper. Right under that very bank. Probably the best thing I've done since completing my time with Mr Gregory. But if I could catch or kill Morwena, that would top it for sure.'
Something approaching a grin creased Arkwright's face and he even began to whistle low and tunelessly while the dogs circled us, snapping at the air in their excitement.
We entered Coniston village from the south. There were few people about but those we saw seemed unfriendly; some even crossed to the other side of the street rather than pass close to us. It was only to be expected. Most people were nervous at being close to a spook, even in Chipenden where Mr Gregory had lived for years. My master liked to keep his distance and avoided walking through the centre, and when I collected the provisions, not everybody was as friendly as the shopkeepers, who welcomed our regular custom.
On reaching a stream – marked on the map as 'Church Beck' – we began to climb a steep track to the west, leaving behind the huddle of houses with their smoking chimneys. Above us loomed the formidable heights of the 'Old Man', but just when my legs were beginning to ache, Arkwright led us off the track into a small garden that fronted a tavern. The sign proclaimed it as:
Two old men were standing in the doorway, each holding a pot of ale. They stepped aside briskly to allow us through, the alarm on their faces probably not only caused by the sight of the two fearsome wolfhounds. They could tell our trade by our clothes and staffs.
Inside, the tavern was empty but the tabletops were clean and a welcoming fire blazed in the grate. Arkwright walked up to the bar and rapped loudly on the wooden counter. We heard someone coming up the steps and a rotund, jovial-looking man in a clean apron came through the open doorway to our right.
I saw him glance warily at the dogs and give Arkwright a quick up and down, but then his initial uneasy smile settled into the businesslike welcome of an experienced host. 'Good day to you, good sirs,' he said. 'What can I offer you? Accommodation, a meal or simply two tankards of my very best ale?'
'We'll take two rooms, landlord, and an evening meal – hotpot, if you have it. In the meantime we'll sit over there in the corner by the fire and start with a caudle.'
The landlord bowed and hurried away. I took my seat opposite Arkwright, wondering what was going on. On the very rare occasions Mr Gregory and I stayed in a tavern, we shared a room; he got the bed while I slept on the floor. Arkwright had ordered us a room each.
'What's a caudle?' I asked.
'It's something to cheer you up on a cold, damp late autumn evening. A hot, spicy mixture of wine and gruel. Just the thing to sharpen our appetites for the hotpot.'
I worried a bit when he said the word wine. The fight with the soldiers had shown me again how violent and angry Arkwright could become with wine inside him and I feared him when he was like that. I'd hoped that he had started to curb his drinking recently, but perhaps the episode with the pressgangers had given him a taste for it.
I tried to remain positive about the situation however and sleeping in the tavern was certainly better than spending the night under a hedge or in a draughty barn – though I knew there were often very good reasons for the things John Gregory did. For one thing he would have expected us to fast before facing the dark, and for another he didn't like people knowing his business. He would have approached one of the three potential lairs of Morwena without first passing through the village. In a small place such as this, gossip spread like wildfire. Now we had taken rooms for the night, soon everyone in Coniston would know that a spook and his apprentice were here. And sometimes witches had allies amongst the community - I'd learned that in Pendle. Even a malevolent water witch such as Morwena might have informants.
For a while I struggled with myself, torn between two options: say nothing to Arkwright and suffer the consequences; or tell him my fears and risk a beating or at least a tongue-lashing. My sense of duty finally won.
'Mr Arkwright,' I began, keeping my voice low in case the landlord returned and overheard us, 'do you think it's wise for us to sit here so publicly? Morwena might have supporters in the area.'
Arkwright smiled grimly. 'Stop your mothering, Master Ward. Do you see any spies about? Remember, when you're with me, you do things my way, and I need some rest and refreshment if I'm to face Morwena. Count yourself lucky that you'll have a full belly and a feather bed tonight. Mr Gregory never treats his apprentices so well.'
Perhaps Arkwright was right. There was no one about and we both deserved a good meal and rest after two nights camped out in the hermit's cave. I was sure Mr Gregory would have insisted we fast before facing Morwena but I decided not to argue with Arkwright any more – especially if he was soon to have some wine in him. I settled back in my seat, stopped worrying and enjoyed my caudle.
But soon the tavern began to fill, and by the time our steaming hotpots arrived, a group of farmers were downing mug
Then things started to go wrong. Arkwright ordered a tankard of the landlord's strongest ale. He downed it in seconds and then bought another, and another. With each drink his voice became louder and his words more slurred. When he went up to the bar for his seventh pint, he stumbled against someone's table, spilling the drinks and earning himself some angry looks. I sat trying not to draw attention to myself, but Arkwright seemed to have no such thoughts. At the bar he was telling the story to anyone who'd listen of how he'd defeated the Coniston Ripper.
After a while he staggered back to our table, carrying his eighth pint. He drank it quickly, then burped loudly, drawing more glances.
'Mr Arkwright,' I said, 'do you think we ought to go to bed now? We've got a busy day tomorrow and it's getting late.'
'There he goes again,' said Arkwright loudly so that he soon had the audience he wanted. 'When will my apprentice learn that it's me who gives the orders, not the other way round. I'll go to bed when I'm good and ready, Master Ward, and not before,' he snarled.
Humiliated, I hung my head. What more could I say? I thought my new master was making a big mistake getting so drunk when we had to face Morwena in the morning, but like he said, I was only the apprentice and had to obey orders.
'Happen the boy's right, though,' said the landlord, coming over to clear our table. 'I don't like to turn away paying customers but you've had a few too many, Bill, and you'll need your wits about you if you're really going to hunt Morwena.'
I was shocked. I didn't realize my master had told the landlord what we were planning – who else had he told while he was at the bar?
Arkwright banged his fist loudly on the table. 'Are you telling me I can't handle my ale?' he shouted.
Suddenly the room was silent as everyone turned to look at us.
'No, Bill,' said the landlord amiably, clearly experienced in dealing with drunkards. 'How about you come back tomorrow night when you've sorted out Morwena and you can drink as much as you like – on the house.'
At the mention of Morwena, a low whispering started amongst the other customers.
'Right, you've got yourself a deal,' said Arkwright, to my relief. 'Master Ward, it's an early night for us.'
I led the way to our rooms with the dogs, and he stumbled behind us up the stairs. But as I entered my room, he stepped in too and closed the door, leaving the dogs outside. 'What do you think of your room?' he slurred.
I looked about me. The bed looked inviting and everything, including the curtains, looked clean and well cared for. The candle beside the bed was beeswax rather than smelly tallow.
'Looks comfortable,' I said. But then I noticed the large mirror on the dressing table to my left. 'Should I cover that up with a sheet?' I asked.
'No need. We're not dealing with your Pendle witches now,' Arkwright said, shaking his head. 'No, no, no,' he hiccupped, 'this is something different. Very different, mark my words. A water witch can't use a mirror to spy on folk. Not even Morwena can do that. Anyway, Master Ward, be grateful. Mr Gregory never booked me a room as comfortable as this – not in all the five years I was his apprentice. But don't get too snug now. Don't get yourself as snug as a little, little bug in a rug. Let us give ourselves a couple of hours' rest, but when the church clock chimes midnight, we're off a-hunting. A-hunting we will go! Go left from the door of your room and down the back steps. I'll meet you at the outer door. Softly, softly does it!'
With those words Arkwright staggered out, closing the door behind him, but I could hear him singing 'A-hunting we will go,' as he struggled drunkenly to unlock his own door. So, without getting undressed, I lay down on the bed. I might be a sound sleeper but I was good at knowing the time, even when asleep, and if I put my mind to it, I'd wake up just before the bells began to chime.
CHAPTER 16
Trail of blood
I was tired after our long walk to Coniston and slept soundly for the two hours, but I woke up suddenly just before the church bell began to peal. Instinctively I knew that it was midnight but I counted out the chimes just to be certain.
However, when I reached the outer door, Arkwright wasn't there. I checked outside, then went back to his room. I paused outside and listened: I could hear the sound of snoring. I rapped softly on the door, and when there was no answer, eased it open very slowly. Claw and Tooth gave simultaneous low growls as I stepped into the room but then their tails began to wag.
Arkwright was lying on the bed, fully-clothed. His mouth was wide open and he was snoring very loudly.
'Mr Arkwright,' I said close to his ear. 'Mr Arkwright, sir, it's time to get up . . .'
I called his name several more times but to no avail. Finally I shook him by the shoulder and he sat up very suddenly, his eyes wide, face twisted with anger. At first I thought he was going to hit me so I spoke quickly.
'You asked me to meet you outside at midnight but it's well after that now . . .'
I saw understanding flicker into his eyes; he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and came unsteadily to his feet.
There were two lanterns on the bedside table and he lit both and handed one to me. Then he staggered out of his room and down the steps, clutching his head and groaning a little. He led the way through the back yard onto the moonlit slope beyond. I glanced up at the rear of the tavern; all the upstairs windows were in darkness but the downstairs ones still cast bright shafts of light onto the ground. From within I could hear raucous voices and someone singing tunelessly.
The clouds had dissipated and the air was crisp and sharp. The two dogs followed at our heels, their eyes gleaming with excitement. It was a steady climb up the southern slopes of the Old Man until snow crunched under our feet. It wasn't very deep and the surface was just starting to freeze.
Once we reached the shore of Goat's Water, Arkwright came to a halt. The small lake had been well-named: a mountain goat would have been far more at home on its steep banks and overhanging crags than a human. The near shore was dotted with large boulders, making access difficult. But Arkwright had not stopped to look at the view. To my surprise, he bent forward very suddenly and began to vomit violently, gushing ale and hotpot onto the ground. I turned my back on him and walked away, my stomach heaving. He was ill for some time but then the retching stopped and I heard him sucking in big breaths of night air.
'Do you feel well, Master Ward?' he asked, tottering towards me.
I nodded. He was still breathing very heavily and there was a film of sweat on his brow.
'That hotpot must have been off. I'll be giving the landlord a piece of my mind in the morning, make no mistake about that!'
Arkwright took another deep breath and wiped his forehead and mouth with the back of his hand. 'I don't feel too well. I think I need to rest for a little while,' he said.
We found a boulder close by for him to rest against and sat together in near silence, save for his occasional groans and the odd whimper from the dogs.
After ten minutes I asked if he felt a little better. He nodded and tried to stand, but his legs seemed to buckle beneath him and he sat down again heavily.
'Should I go on alone, Mr Arkwright?' I suggested. 'I don't think you're well enough to search round here, let alone make it all the way to Coniston Water.'
'Nay, lad, you can't go off alone. Whatever would Mr Gregory say, with Morwena in our midst? Another five minutes and I'll be right as rain.'
But in another five minutes he was throwing up the last of the ale and hotpot and it was clear that he wasn't fit to hunt for Morwena that night.
'Mr Arkwright,' I said, 'I think I'd better leave you here and take a look round myself – or we could go back to the inn and search for