The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

‘The demons cannot have her, they cannot take her! No…no!’ She put the palms of her hands together and looked up to the heavens. ‘Mercy, oh mercy!’

  The earl walked around the bed and placed his arm around his wife.

  ‘Charlotte…it is not to be.’

  Charlotte swung her body round to reject his supportive arm. She raised her voice. ‘Don’t you see…? This is divine retribution, William! Punishment for letting Father Peters go and for renouncing our faith. Don’t you understand? What have we done?’

  No one answered her questions. She hung her head low…until she rose and announced: ‘It was her, wasn’t it? Kathleen and her poisons?’

  There was a demonic look in her eyes.

  ‘She has to suffer, the way I am suffering now. She will never come here again and people must know that she is not to be trusted.’

  Her words resonated. Oliver ran across the landing towards the bedroom.

  ‘No, no, it can’t be, it can’t be. My sister can’t be dead, she can’t be!’ He went close to Mary’s face and clutched her hands. ‘Mary, Mary, wake up. Mary, you must hear me. Wake up, I said!’

  At the foot of the stairs the servants heard every word. Anne feared for Kathleen. Frances had just told Henry to ride Sabre to get the physician as fast as possible… It no longer mattered.

  *

  The days that followed were solemn and grim. Margaret’s infectious laughter ceased; Frances was even more austere. There was only the sound of the servants’ footsteps, going about their business.

  Anne asked for permission to begin some further tuition for Ruth, at least for a short time but, as soon as she asked, she quickly gauged her mistress’s angry response.

  ‘How dare you even ask that of me? The daughter of that murderer will never come to my house again! You will help Margaret and Frances until I discuss with the earl what duties you shall have.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ said Anne humbly and walked away. So I may be dismissed.

  *

  The earl had received condolences and a pardon from his duties from the Queen, but he felt that he would rather be at Court, busying himself, than in this house of sadness and death.

  Nothing would ever bring Mary back to him. Her brightness and energy would meet him no more as he returned from court. She would no longer dance and giggle, play the flute or dress up and play imaginative games of growing up into a beautiful lady. A beautiful lady she would have been, too.

  He recalled the endless nights of her restlessness as a small infant. She had cried every night and her appetite had been so poor that they had gone to many lengths to fatten her with bread soaked in eggs and milk, and even warm ox blood and honey. She had eventually surprised them by growing stronger and wilful. How can that time now be wasted? Tears fell without effort or control from red eyes set in a grief-stricken face.

  The earl’s reminiscing ceased as sobs from above travelled through the house. Charlotte was groaning, ‘You must come home to me, Mary, you must come back home, come home my sweet child, come home. I cannot bear this.’

  The sound broke his resolve and he gulped painfully. He bent his head low into his cupped hands and sobbed. He could stand no more. Tears now burst from his eyes in abundance. His face contorted, his chest began to heave and his body shook with uncontrollable sorrow.

  The howling was heard in every room. In the scullery the servants stopped what they were doing and solemnly looked at one another as they listened.

  Margaret’s lips trembled as teardrops ran down her cheek. She had held back too long and now needed to release her pent-up misery.

  Her emotions were infectious. Frances and Anne wept. Ged and Henry stood watching but they also needed comfort and release. They hugged one another. They all hugged one another. There was nothing else they could do. Lady Mary had gone; gone forever.

  ‘Come on,’ said Frances, sniffling then wiping her nose, before restoring her familiar decorum. ‘This won’t do. We cannot help, by crying like babies. We have duties to perform. None of us can bring Mary back. She has returned to her maker. God rest her soul.’ They made the sign of the cross.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Christmas 1957

  I frequently saw Gran studying the chalice. She often handled it and now voiced her thoughts, ‘Wonder who has held this, Tom? How often do you think it was used?’ She was fascinated.

  We talked about keeping secrets and now she wanted to share her new knowledge and prompt her daughter and son-in law to become involved with my mission of discovering what happened in our manor house. I had looked concerned, until she promised me she wouldn’t mention the tunnel.

  ‘Wait and see,’ she said.

  I nodded, ‘Okay, just the goblet—chalice, rather.’

  That evening over dinner, she sat down excitedly.

  ‘I have something in my apron pocket I haven’t told any of you yet, but what I found out at the library is intriguing and I can’t wait to share it with you. Tom of course, is well aware.’

  Silence. Gran fiddled in her pocket.

  ‘Hurry up then, mother, the potatoes will go cold.’ Mum was irritated, as if anticipating another tale of ghosts in her house.

  ‘Well, here in my hand is a beautiful piece of history…and it belongs to you.’ Her eyes scanned us all. ‘An actual Tudor chalice. Of course, what I read in the library was a mere estimate of its value; the picture was surprisingly similar though.’ She paused.

  ‘And…?’ My mum was becoming anxious. I wasn’t sure if she was eager to know the value or worried about her cold potatoes.

  ‘Well, it’s definitely of Tudor origin.’

  ‘How do you know it’s Tudor?’ asked my mum, lifting the lid from the tureen of potatoes to check their temperature.

  ‘The markings: there’s a Latin inscription. I’ll get it properly valued, but I’ve done a good job of cleaning it and I’m pretty certain it is indeed valuable. The one very similar in the antiques book was valued at £1,500.’

  She turned to Dad.

  ‘Albert, this could be your salvation. The children say there’s more treasure. We should be helping them. It’s not just imagination. Something happened in this house centuries ago and you should keep digging, love.’

  ‘Huh!’ Dad started to eat his braised beef and potatoes, seemingly uninterested.

  Then, with a mouthful of food, he looked up. He ate while he looked at the chalice. After he swallowed his food, he showed some interest.

  ‘Let me see that, Dorothy.’ He held it and for the first time in ages, he looked inspired. ‘Hmm. I’ll think about it.’

  Mum wanted to hold it as well. ‘It does look like a fine specimen. You really have cleaned it well, Mum. I hope it’s worth something. We need the money.’

  Annabel and I grinned.

  Mum, now that everybody was eating her food, seemed relaxed and excited. ‘Think about it, Albert. £1,500, eh?’

  An animated Annabel squealed, ‘I can have a new Raleigh bike.’

  Dad shook his head.

  I, too, started to think of what I would like but, strangely enough, nothing of any material worth came to mind.

  *

  George was invited to Christmas Eve dinner. In the previous weeks, Annabel and I hadn’t made much progress with the digging. She got too cold and fed up and Dad had been against it, but I wanted to resume it and knew George would be enthusiastic.

  The tall Christmas tree, adorned with sweets and fancy baubles, glowed from candlelight that flickered from tiny candles held in holders at the end of the highest branches in the soft evening light. Mum didn’t want them too low in case someone knocked them.

  Masses of brightly coloured paper trimmings hung low from each corner of the dining room, meeting in the centre of the ceiling and swaying gently in the warm air.

  The fireplace looked spectacular as it sparkled with red and orange flames. The mantelpiece brimmed with holly and bits of conifer decorated with baubles and bells.

  The c
racking of wood reminded me of Bonfire Night: not the fireworks or the spuds, but the ethereal image of the woman with flowing hair. Just like the face at the window, it lasted a mere couple of seconds, leaving you with the impression that you have an overactive imagination.

  I recalled the familiar sight of the candles on the first evening in the old house but now it was much cosier, the damp fustiness had disappeared. The smell of freshly baked pies and cakes wafted from the kitchen. George was smiling broadly.

  ‘This is great, Tom. My Mum and Dad never make a fuss. Say it’s too damned expensive. This feels like a proper Christmas.’

  Mum had arranged a few early presents under the tree, and George was given his. He opened it eagerly to discover a new torch with differently coloured beams but, in his delight, he forgot himself.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Winchett, this is great: far better than the one I dropped in the tunnel, eh Tom?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Oops…’ George muttered.

  Mum stared at him.

  ‘Ah, was it a blue torch by any chance George?’ She held his horrified gaze. ‘Only I was searching for my blue torch the other day and couldn’t find it anywhere’ Group silence… then mum asked, and what tunnel might that be?’

  George had turned bright red. Dad, sensing an awkward moment, quickly ushered us to the table.

  ‘George, you can sit here across from Annabel and next to Tom, eh? We can all carry on opening presents after we’ve eaten eh? Dinner is ready, isn’t it Alice? Do you want any help dishing up dear?’

  My momentarily dumbfounded Mum took the hint and went to fetch the food: a large ham, potatoes, carrots and peas. Gran helped her and, as they were returning to the room, I heard her mutter, ‘Don’t get agitated Alice. George is having a really nice time. Don’t spoil it for your guest.’

  Mum dished out the meat.

  ‘Help yourself to the vegetables, George.’ But she still wanted answers and couldn’t resist. ‘I didn’t quite catch your answer to my question, George. Did you lose my blue torch in a tunnel?’

  Dad chipped in but it made no difference, ‘Alice, leave the lad alone to eat his dinner, eh?’

  George, surprisingly, was ready with a response.

  ‘I took the torch home Mrs. Winchett and by accident I dropped it into a pond in an underpass. Sorry, but you can keep the one you bought me to replace it. I won’t mind.’

  Gran kept opening her mouth like a bloated fish: wanting, I assumed, to spill the beans. I glared at her.

  Dad now wanted answers. ‘And why do you kids look so guilty?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘I know it’s not fair to keep you in the dark, but you have to believe what we have to say for a change.’

  Gran nodded with approval.

  ‘I have a feeling you know something I don’t,’ Mum questioned Gran.

  She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Oh go on, Gran, say what you have to say, you’ve wanted to for ages.’

  ‘Well…are you sure, Tom?’ I nodded and she seemed relieved as well as excited to be able to give her account. ‘It was quite by accident. You see, it was Arthur, really. George’s father. He mentioned a little cup that Tom had found in the garden. I quizzed Tom. George must’ve told Arthur about it, but never mind.’ George looked guilty. Gran hesitated. ‘Actually, I think it’s better coming from the children.’

  ‘Tell them, Tom,’ Annabel said to me, and a sheepish George nodded in agreement.

  They sat listening hard to the account of the tunnel. Once or twice Dad or Mum laughed with utter disbelief. Dad asked if all this had to do with the hauntings but, like Mum, he was in denial. ‘Ah, it’s a new Christmas story. Another Charles Dickens.’

  Mum sighed. ‘I get sick and tired of all this stupid chatter about spirits. They simply do not exist. How do you expect me to accept that living creatures from the past are messing about in a tunnel under my house? This game is ridiculous, Tom.’

  Gran reassured her. ‘I don’t think it is a game, Alice, but it’s not as bad as you think. It may not be a creature at all. Tom thought he saw a dark shadow, that’s all and probably imagined a hooded figure. You know what kids are like. At first when Tom told me of secret passages, I was afraid that something would enter my bedroom through the cupboard, but nothing has ever happened. Silly, isn’t it?’

  Dad laughed out loud. ‘This sounds like you all belong to a secret fantastical organisation that’s duped you into believing this stuff is real. Ha! I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Monsters in cupboards, I ask you! For God’s sake.’

  Gran was unperturbed as she confronted my dad.

  ‘There has been some good come out of the digging, Albert. Look at the chalice…and you have to agree, you live in a very old house with a rich history. Isn’t that what you’re proud of, Alice?’

  ‘Of course, mother. But that doesn’t mean dark shadows and voices all around us, for God’s sake.’

  Then we all starting talking at once, trying to get across our own analysis of events which we experienced, about how people became bewitched, but then Mum’s voice raised above everyone else’s.

  ‘Some people have vivid imaginations and see things that don’t exist and actually believe that humans die but come back as somebody else, or even a creature. It’s plain madness, people either read too many Dennis Wheatley type books or they have little excitement in their real lives. Anyway, that’s my opinion!’

  George, thoroughly encouraged by Mum’s prattle, could not resist a debate and shot into ‘babble mode’, giving his reasons for ghosts, the difference between a ghost and a poltergeist, and the history of priest holes. He hardly drew breath, but all around him the family were all ears.

  You could do nothing else once he started, because he rabbited on to match the speed of light. He was so animated that his eyebrows remained arched and almost reaching his hairline throughout the entire speech. He was loving it.

  When he finally stopped before he expired, Gran clapped and we followed suit; even mum was grinning. Gran rose from the table deciding we all needed a drink.

  ‘There’s a large bottle of Tizer for the children, some beer for Albert and some whisky for me. I will have lemonade in it, dear, don’t worry.’ She winked at her daughter. ‘And for you, Alice, I have bought some pink champagne.’

  Dad rose from the table. ‘Dorothy, I’ll get the drinks. And thank you. Tom and Annabel, you put some mince pies on the table, please.’

  There was a hive of activity. I had to admit a great sense of relief in getting all that eerie stuff out in the open. Most of all though, it was just great to see George so ecstatically happy.

  The drinks started to flow. We were still sitting around the table but the transformation in everybody was amusing. Dad had forgotten that he didn’t have a job.

  After a couple of glasses of pink champagne, Mum wasn’t too upset about a possible resident spirit under the house and Gran was visibly relieved not to be keeping secrets any more.

  We raised our glasses many times to drink to Becton Manor and its treasures. This house was my home. This was now a quest, a joint quest, with everyone on my side. There was more to come, of that I was certain.

  After dinner we played Charades and Monopoly. Gran’s vision after too many whiskies was playing tricks, and she believed Annabel when she agreed to buy all her houses on Park Lane and Mayfair from her, which were in fact hotels. We ate lots of chocolate and giggled at the slightest thing.

  The doorbell went. It was George’s dad. Annabel let him in. He kind of whooped into the dining room, emitting a strong smell of whisky.

  ‘Merry Christmas all.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Arthur.’

  George looked disappointed at having to leave us, but he remembered his manners.

  ‘Thank you, Mr and Mrs Winchett for a really lovely Christmas Eve dinner.’

  It had been a very memorable evening. That night though, I still polished my box
and became acquainted with the momentary soft voices within the walls. Something happened in this house, many hundreds of years ago, and someone wanted me to find out.

  *

  Compared to Christmas Eve dinner, Christmas Day lunch was just too peaceful. Perhaps we needed George’s presence. For some reason we didn’t discuss the treasures further, or the ghosts of the house. Maybe Mum and Dad needed time to digest it all.

  A couple of days after Christmas the sun broke through and the ground was not so frozen.

  Dad kept his promise to dig deeper behind the summer house and gave new spades to Annabel and me. With all the striking she had done at the stone object below, Annabel had broken one of the spades. Dad’s fury, though, had now subsided. We dug vigorously with intent and purpose, shifting heaps of wet, muddy, heavy soil tinged with grey sodden snow, but the ground remained hard and the stone object larger and more sunken than we thought.

  Dad at least showed some interest.

  ‘You’re right, Tom. Seems like there’s a flagstone here all right.’

  He walked to the shed and came back with his large pick.

  We hurriedly cleared away more soil until it was exposed; about three feet by four feet long. Dad hooked the pick on the edge of the flagstone. It came loose and lifted; revealing the sound of water trickling below, like a cave. As we all peered into the hole, the damn raven swooped, in an apparent rage, brushing the top of our heads.

  ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’ yelled Annabel.

  ‘Cover your eyes, the pair of you!’ Dad shooed it away. The bird squawked loudly and flapped its huge wings, inches over Dad’s scalp. ‘Oh, God, what have we started, here?’

  I couldn’t resist a quick look into the hole, now filling with spilled soil. Below the ground were the steps I had discovered, but also something new: I glimpsed another tunnel off to the right of the vault.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Spring 1598

  The return to normality at Becton Manor, following the death of Mary, was indeed difficult for all who lived under its roof. The earl and Lady Charlotte hardly spoke to one another or the servants. Lady Charlotte failed to comment on the new growth on her shrubs, the signs of spring and new life in her garden, something she usually delighted in.