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 held 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 . . .’