The Whitby Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery) J. Ellis (distant reading TXT) 📖

straightforward shimmering white ghost any day after all this gory Dracula and goth stuff I’ve seen over in Whitby. By the way, what’s that over there?’ He pointed to a black shape, which looked a figure with its arms spread wide leaning over the river. ‘It looks as if the vampire Count may have followed me here.’

Deborah grasped his arm. ‘Jim, stop it! You know I get nervous about things like that.’

Oldroyd laughed. ‘Don’t worry it’s only a gnarled old tree stump.’ He went over, grasped a bare bough and shook it. ‘And you such a rationalist and analyser of the human mind!’

‘That may be,’ replied Deborah, walking warily round the stump and mounting one of the boardwalks which had been erected over the wettest parts of the paths, ‘but we all have our weaknesses and things we’re afraid of. It’s part of being human and living in a universe we don’t understand and where terrible things can happen.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I think one of the functions of these werewolves, ghoulies, vampires and stuff is to give concrete form to our insecurities. They embody our fears of being attacked, bitten, eaten, but it’s all at a distance because we know they don’t really exist and we either read about them or watch them on film from the safety of a chair.’

They were walking through the gorge by the side of the river Nidd with the steep wooded valley to their right. A dog walker passed them with an enthusiastic Labrador enjoying itself getting wet and filthy in the mud. It threatened to jump up, put its muddy paws on Deborah and give her a big lick until the owner called out, ‘Judy! Get down.’

‘Don’t worry,’ called Deborah, laughing as she stroked the dog. They continued on the path, now passing the beautifully restored Scotton Mill by a weir on the river.

‘How would you like to live there?’ asked Oldroyd.

‘Beautiful spot, but maybe the water going down the weir would be noisy and it would be scary out here in the woods at night.’

‘You’re right though, at some level we like being frightened, don’t we?’ said Oldroyd. ‘That’s why there are so many horror stories and films and why people like dressing up as vampires and monsters.’

‘Yes, it’s all in a controlled and safe way.’

The path started to climb up through the trees away from the river, which continued on to Knaresborough.

Oldroyd made a suggestion. ‘I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you come over to Whitby for a few days while I’m involved in this case? We could do a bit of walking and maybe go out on a sea trip.’

Deborah turned to him. ‘Jim, that’s a lovely idea, but won’t you be busy?’

‘No more than I am here and we still manage to do plenty. What about your clients?’ Deborah had a private therapy practice.

‘I can always rearrange things.’

‘Good. I just hope you don’t get scared with all the goth stuff.’ Oldroyd had a twinkle in his eye.

‘I promise I won’t. And I hope you don’t become obsessed with the case. Getting away from the office will be a good time to relax a bit . . . and maybe write some of your poetry?’

‘Yes, I will, don’t worry. By the way, have you ever been to the Whitby Museum?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

Oldroyd rubbed his hands together. ‘Good, well, treat in store then. That place is really spooky.’

‘Is it? Why?’

‘No more information. And we’d better get a move on; it’s really getting dark now and all the goblins and sprites will be out practising for Halloween in a few days’ time. Come on, let’s jog and we’ll have a drink at the Gardener’s Arms.’ Without another word he started to jog down the bridleway back towards Bilton, followed by a laughing Deborah who soon caught him up and passed him even though she’d already run 5 km that day.

It was late on Saturday night at the climax of the Goth Weekend. The streets of the old east side of the town were packed with revellers in various macabre costumes. A number of drinkers were standing outside the popular Old Ship Inn in Church Street. As they drank, joked and laughed they thought nothing of the solitary black-caped figure coming slowly down the street, wandering from side to side until it reached them. The figure’s face was difficult to see under a black hood and there was the white glimmer of a mask. It pulled out a gun. Assuming it was a joke, people laughed and one of them put up her hands in mock surrender. But then the figure raised the gun and fired two shots: one hitting a plant pot and the other smashing a light above the door. The woman screamed, someone shouted, ‘What the hell!?’ and some people dived for cover underneath wooden tables.

The Dracula figure shouted something indecipherable and was seen to be sobbing and shaking. Then it ran down one of the narrow ginnels which led to the sea and disappeared into the darkness. There was chaos at the pub. Random shouts were heard: ‘He’s got a gun!’ ‘Stay inside!’ ‘There’s some bloody lunatic out here!’ Then another gun shot was heard. ‘What the hell was that?’ ‘Call the police; there’s someone firing a gun off.’

After this there was quiet. Tentatively, people started to come out of the pub, edge their way down the street, glance down the dark alley, and then run down the street away from the scene. With the siren blaring and flashing blue lights, a police car came down the street and stopped at the pub. After being briefed about what happened, officers went down the ginnel with flashlights but could find no trace of the strange goth figure with the gun. The festivities had been ruined in that part of the town; the mood had changed and everyone quickly dispersed. Dressing up in ghoulish ways was one thing, but a brush with real danger was something else.

Outside the Old