The Spook's Mistake

CHAPTER 4 The mill

The Spook had just decided that we should press on north towards Kendal when we heard muffled sounds approaching. It was the steady beat of hooves and the swish of water. Then, looming out of the mist, we saw two huge shire horses harnessed one behind the other. They were being led down the towpath by a man in a leather tunic and were pulling a long narrow barge behind them.

As the barge passed underneath the bridge, I saw the man glance back up towards us. Then he brought the horses to a gradual halt, tethered them on the towpath and walked up onto the wooden bridge with a steady, unhurried stride and a confident roll of his shoulders. He wasn't a tall man but he was thick-set, with large hands, and despite the chill, underneath the leather jerkin the top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a thatch of brown hair.

Most men would cross the road to avoid passing too close to a spook, but he smiled broadly, and to my astonishment, walked right up to my master and held out his hand. 'I expect you're Mr Gregory.' The stranger beamed. 'I'm Matthew Gilbert. Bill Arkwright asked me to collect the boy. '

They shook hands, my master returning his smile. 'I'm pleased to meet you too, Mr Gilbert,' the Spook replied, 'but isn't he well enough to come himself?'

'No, it's not that, although he has been poorly,' Mr Gilbert explained. 'It's just that they've found a body in the water — it had been drained of blood like the others. It's the third in two months and Bill's gone north to investigate. Of late the dark seems to be rearing its ugly head more often and he's been kept really busy.'

The Spook nodded thoughtfully but didn't comment. Instead he put his hand on my shoulder. 'Well, this is Tom Ward. He expected to walk — no doubt he'll be pleased to get himself a ride. '

Mr Gilbert smiled and then shook my hand. 'I'm very pleased to meet you, young Tom. But now I'll let you say your goodbyes in peace. So I'll see you down there,' he said, nodding towards the barge and then making his way down.

'Well, lad, don't forget to write. You can send us a letter after the first week to let us know how you've settled in,' the Spook said, handing me a couple of small silver coins. 'And here's something for Bill Arkwright to help towards your keep.' And he placed a guinea in my hand. 'I can't see you having any problems. Just work as hard for Arkwright as you have for me and all should be well. For a while you're going to have a different master with his own way of working and it'll be your task to adapt to him — not the other way round. Keep your notebook up to date and write down everything he teaches you — even if it's not quite the same as I've taught. It's always good to have another perspective, and by now Arkwright is an expert on things that come out of the water. So listen well and be on your guard. The County's a dangerous place at present. We all need to keep our wits about us!'

With that, the Spook gave me a nod and turned on his heel. Only when he'd left the bridge did Alice approach. She put her arms right round me and hugged me close.

'Oh, Tom! Tom! I'll miss you,' she said.

'And I'll miss you,' I replied, a lump coming to my throat.

She pulled away and held me at arm's length. 'Take care of yourself, please. I couldn't bear it if anything were to happen to you. '

'Nothing's going to happen,' I said, trying to reassure her. 'And I can look after myself. You should know that by now.'

'Listen,' she said, looking quickly over her shoulder, 'if you're in trouble or you need to tell me something urgently, use a mirror!'

Her words shocked me and I took a step backwards. Witches employed mirrors to communicate and I'd seen Alice use one once. The Spook would be horrified by what she was saying. Such practices belonged to the dark and he would never approve of us communicating in that way.

'Ain't no cause to look at me like that, Tom,' Alice insisted. 'All you have to do is place both hands against a mirror and think about me just as hard as you can. If it don't work the first time, then keep trying.'

'No, Alice, I'm not doing anything like that,' I told her angrily. 'It's something from the dark and I'm here to fight it, not be part of it. '

'Not that simple, Tom. Sometimes we need to fight the dark with the dark. Remember that, despite what Old Gregory might say. And be careful. Ain't a good part of the County to be. I was up there once with Bony Lizzie and lived on the edge of the marsh, not too far from Arkwright's mill. So take care, please!'

I nodded, then, impulsively, leaned forward and kissed her on the left cheek. She drew back and I saw tears welling in her eyes. The parting was hard for both of us. Then she turned and ran from the bridge. Moments later she'd disappeared into the mist.

I walked sadly down onto the towpath. Matthew Gilbert was waiting for me and he simply pointed to a wooden seat at the front of the barge. I sat myself down and looked about. Behind me were two huge wooden hatches, their padlocks hanging loose. This was a working barge and no doubt a cargo of some sort was stowed down there.

Moments later we were heading north. I kept glancing back towards the bridge, hoping against hope that Alice would appear so I could see her one last time. She didn't and it gave me a pain in my chest to leave her behind like that.

Every so often we passed a barge travelling in the opposite direction. Each time Mr Gilbert exchanged a cheery wave with the other bargeman. These craft varied in size but all were long and narrow with one or more hatches. But whereas some were well kept, with bright, colourful paintwork, others were black and grimy, with fragments of coal on their decks suggesting what lay in the hold.

At about one o'clock Mr Gilbert brought the horses to a stop, freed them from their harness and tethered them on the edge of some rough grassland at the side of the canal. While they grazed, he quickly made a fire and proceeded to cook us some lunch. I asked if I could help in any way but he shook his head.

'Guests don't work,' he said. 'I'd rest while you can. Bill Arkwright works his apprentices hard. Don't get me wrong though, he's a good man — good at his job — and he's done a lot for the County. And he's tenacious too. Once he's got the whiff of his quarry he never gives up.'

He peeled some potatoes and carrots and boiled them in a pan over the fire. We sat at the rear of the barge, our feet dangling over the water, eating with our fingers from two wooden plates. The food hadn't been cooked long enough and both the carrots and the potatoes were still hard. But I was hungry enough to eat both the bargeman's horses so I just chewed thoroughly and swallowed. We ate in silence, but after a while, out of politeness, I tried to engage the bargeman in conversation.

'Have you known Mr Arkwright long?' I asked.

'Ten years or more,' Mr Gilbert replied. 'Bill used to live at the mill with his parents but they died years ago. Since becoming the local spook he's become a very good customer of mine. Takes a big delivery of salt every month. I fill five large barrels for him. I also bring him other provisions: candles, food — you name it. Especially wine. Likes a tipple, Bill does. Not your common elderberry or dandelion wine for him. Prefers his wine red. It comes by ship to Sunderland Point then overland to Kendal, where I take it aboard once a month. He pays me well.'

I was intrigued by the quantity of salt. In combination with iron, spooks used salt to coat the inside of pits when binding boggarts. It could also be used as a weapon against creatures of the dark. But we used relatively small amounts and bought small bags from the village grocer. Why would he need five barrels of salt every month?

'Is that your cargo now — salt and wine?' I asked.

'At the moment the hold is empty,' he replied, shaking his head. 'I've just delivered a load of slate to a builder in Caster and I'm heading back up to the quarry to collect some more. We carry all sorts of stuff around in this job. I'll carry anything but coal — it's so plentiful and cheap that it's not even worth bothering to lock the hatches in case of theft. And that black stuff gets everywhere so I leave that to the specialist carriers.'

'So, Mr Arkwright's mill — is it right on the canal?'

'Close enough,' Mr Gilbert replied. 'You won't be able to see it from the barge — it's hidden by trees and bushes — but from the canal bank you could throw a small stone into the edge of the garden without straining too hard. It's a lonely place, but no doubt you'll be well accustomed to that.'

We lapsed into silence again, but then I thought of something that had struck me on the journey.

'There are a lot of bridges over the canal. Why does it need so many?'

'I wouldn't quarrel with that observation,' Mr Gilbert said, nodding. 'When they dug the canal, it cut a lot of farms in two. They'd paid the farmers for taking their land but also had to provide them with access to fields that lay on the other side of the canal. But there's another reason. Horses and barges travel keeping to the left. So when you want to change direction, your horses can switch banks. Anyway, we'd best get on now. You would do well to reach the mill before dark.'

Mr Gilbert hitched the horses to the barge, and we were soon moving slowly north again. It had been misty at dawn, but rather than being burned off by the sun, this soon became a dense fog that closed the visibility down to a few paces. I could see the backside of the nearest horse, but its companion and Matthew Gilbert were hidden from view. Even the rhythmical clip-clop of hooves was muffled. Every so often we passed under a bridge, but apart from that there was nothing to see and I grew weary just sitting there.

About an hour before dark Mr Gilbert brought the horses to a halt and walked back to where I was sitting. 'Here we are!' he called out cheerily, pointing into the mist. 'Bill Arkwright's house is straight over there. '

Collecting my bag and staff, I clambered out onto the towpath. There was a large post on the canal bank, to which Mr Gilbert tethered the leading horse. The upper section resembled a hangman's scaffold and from this hung a large bell.

'I ring the bell when I bring supplies,' he said, nodding towards the post. 'Five clear rings to tell him it's me with a delivery and not somebody needing a spook — it's customary to ring three times in that case. Bill comes out and collects what I've brought. If there's a lot, I sometimes help him carry it back to the boundary of the garden. He's none too keen on anyone going closer than that!'

I understood. He was just like my master in that respect. People needing help rang a bell at the crossroads and I was usually sent to find out what they wanted.

All I could see beyond the post was a grey wall of mist, but I heard the gurgling of a stream somewhere below. At this point the canal was elevated above the surrounding fields. From the towpath a steep grassy bank sloped down into the mist.

'It's only about ninety paces or so to the edge of his garden,' Mr Gilbert said. 'At the foot of this bank there's a stream. Just follow it. It flows right under the house and used to drive the waterwheel when it was a working mill. Anyway, good luck. I'll probably see you again next time I'm passing by with salt — or cases of wine,' he added, giving me a wink.

With that, he untied the horses and walked off into the mist. Once more there came the muffled sound of hooves and the barge glided away northwards. I remained standing there until the sound of hooves faded away altogether. Then, apart from the babble of water below me, I was enveloped in a blanket of silence. I shivered. I'd hardly ever felt so alone.

I scrambled down the steep bank and found myself on the edge of a fast-flowing stream. The water surged towards me before rushing into a dark tunnel under the canal, no doubt to reappear on the other side. The visibility had improved somewhat but was still no better than a dozen paces in any direction. I began to walk upstream, following a muddy track in the direction of the house, expecting it to loom out of the mist at any moment.

But all I could see was trees — drooping willows — on both banks, their branches trailing into the water. They immediately impeded my progress and I kept having to duck down. At last I reached the perimeter of Arkwright's garden, a seemingly impenetrable thicket of leafless trees, shrubs and saplings. First, however, there was another barrier to cross.

The garden was bounded by a rusty iron fence: sharp-pointed, six-foot palings linked by three rows of horizontal bars. How could I get into the garden? The fence would be difficult to climb and I didn't want to risk being impaled on the top. So I followed the curve of the railings to the left, hoping to find another entrance. By now I was beginning to get annoyed with Matthew Gilbert. He'd told me to follow the stream but hadn't bothered to explain what I'd find or how to actually reach the house.

I'd been following the railings for a few minutes when the going began to get very soggy underfoot. There were tussocks of marsh grass and pools of water, and in order to find slightly firmer ground I was forced to walk with my right shoulder almost touching the railings. But at last I came to a narrow gap.

I stepped through into the garden, to be confronted by a trench filled with water. The water was murky and it was impossible to say just how deep it might be. It was also at least nine paces across — impossible to jump even with a running start. I looked right and left but there was no way around it. So I tested it with my staff and, to my surprise, found it came no higher than my knees. It looked like a defensive moat but was surely too shallow. So what was it for?

Puzzled, I waded across, quickly soaking the bottoms of my breeches in the process. Thickets were waiting for me on the other side but a narrow path led through them, and after a few moments it opened out onto a wide area of rough grass, from which grew some of the largest willow trees I'd ever seen. They emerged from the mist like giants, with long thin wet fingers that trailed against my clothes and tangled in my hair.

At last I heard the babbling of the stream again, before catching my first glimpse of Arkwright's mill. It was bigger than the Spook's Chipenden house but size was the only impressive thing about it. Constructed of wood, it was dilapidated and sat oddly on the ground, the roof and walls meeting at strange angles; the former was green with slime, while grass and small seedlings sprouted from the gutters. Parts of the building looked rotten and unsound, as if the whole structure were just biding its time, waiting for its inevitable demise in the first storm of the winter.

In front of the house, the stream hurled itself at the huge wooden waterwheel, which remained idle, immobile despite the furious efforts of the torrent; this rushed on into a dark tunnel beneath the building. Looking at the wheel more closely, I could see that it was rotten and broken and probably hadn't moved for many a long year.

The first door I came to was boarded up, as were the three windows closest to it. So I walked on towards the stream until I reached a narrow porch enclosing a large, sturdy door. This looked like the main entrance so I knocked three times. Perhaps Arkwright was back by now? When nobody came in response, I rapped again, harder this time. Finally I tried the handle but found the door locked.

What was I supposed to do now? Sit on the step in the cold and damp? It was bad enough in daylight but soon it would be dark. There was no guarantee that Arkwright would be back before then. Investigating the body in the water might take him days.

There was a way to solve my problem. I had a special key, made by Andrew, the Spook's locksmith brother. Although it would open most doors, and I expected the one before me to present little difficulty, I was reluctant to use it. It just didn't seem right to go into someone's house without their permission, so I decided to wait a little longer to see if Arkwright turned up after all. But soon the cold and damp began to seep into my bones and changed my mind for me. After all, I was going to live here for six months and he was expecting me.

The key turned easily in the lock but the door groaned on its hinges as it slowly opened. The mill was gloomy within, the air damp and musty and tainted with the strong odour of stale wine. I took just one step inside, allowing my eyes to adjust, then looking about me. There was a large table at the far end of the room, at the centre of which was a single candle set within a small brass candlestick. I put down my staff and used my bag to wedge open the door and allow some light into the room. Pulling my tinderbox from my pocket, I had the candle lit within moments. That done, I noticed a sheet of paper on the table, held in position by the candlestick. One glance and I could see that it was a note for me so I picked it up and began to read.

Dear Master Ward,

It seems that you have used your initiative, otherwise you would have spent the night outside in the dark, an experience that would be less than pleasant. Here you will find things very different to Chipenden.

Although I follow the same trade as Mr Gregory, we work in different ways. Your master's house is a refuge, cleansed from within; but here, the unquiet dead walk and it is my wish that they do so. They will not harm you, so leave them be. Do nothing.

There is food in the larder and wood for the stove by the door, so eat your fill and sleep well. It would be wise to spend the night in the kitchen and await my return. Do not venture down into the lowest part of the house nor attempt to enter the topmost room, which is locked.

Respect my wishes both for your good and for mine.

Bill Arkwright