The Vengeance of the Witch-Finder by John Bellairs

Author:John Bellairs [Bellairs, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Horror & Ghost Stories, People & Places, Europe, Fantasy & Magic, Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781101659779
Google: OA6pAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00CS74WLG
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1995-08-31T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

As Lewis stared unbelievingly at the place near the cottage where the black-clad man had stood, a hand fell on his shoulder. He jumped a mile and yelped in alarm. Bertie cried out at the same time. But when Lewis turned to see who or what had grabbed him, there stood old Jenkins, a look of reproach on his face. “The master won’t like that,” said Jenkins, shaking his head. “Runnin’ about and makin’ an unholy row and all. You and Bertie here ought to be quieter and more considerate of your elders.”

“We’re sorry, Jenkins,” said Bertie. “We had a bit of a fright.”

“Oh? And what frightened you two?”

Lewis thought fast. “We were down close to the gatekeeper’s cottage, and, uh, we heard a dog or something. It growled at us and we ran up to the house.”

Jenkins furrowed his brow and scratched the top of his bald head. “A dog? Nay, there’s no dog there, nor any within miles of this place, except for the sheep dogs. And they’re too well trained to come mummocking about where they don’t belong.” Jenkins had not changed back into his suit after working in the garden. He wore coveralls and a plaid shirt. He straightened up and gazed down the drive toward the cottage. “You two were best to stay well out of the way of that house, and the man that’s staying there. That one’s a strange duck, and no mistake.”

“Mr. Prester, you mean?” asked Bertie.

“Aye, whatever he calls himself,” muttered Jenkins. “Needs a rest, he says. Down from London, he says. A retired businessman, he is—and my sainted Aunt Sarah was a foxtrotting pepperpot! A queer, strange sort of cove, that one. And he comes when I’ve got the garden on my hands, and the worry of all the chickens dying of the heat or something, and I have the mowing and the painting of the master’s bedroom to see to—just when I don’t need any extra work.”

“He’s made you work harder?” asked Lewis.

“Hard enough.” Jenkins sniffed in disdain. “All very well for him to come tramping down the high road. ‘Good afternoon to thee,’ he says, like a blessed vicar. ‘And may I speak to thy master about a small matter of business?’ And him standin’ there in the road like a bloomin’ scarecrow. ‘Speak to him if you want,’ said I. ‘Though what business the likes of you might have with the master of Barnavelt Manor I couldn’t guess.’ And then the silly goose stood there gapin’ at me. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I asked him, and he says, ‘For you to invite me into the house.’ Well, that was cheeky. ‘Come in, then,’ said I, ‘and speak more polite-like to the master than you do to me, or it’s no business at all you’ll be doing with him.’”

Lewis could tell that old Jenkins had taken an instant dislike to the mysterious Mr. Prester. “But how did he make you have to work harder?” he asked.

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