She then wrapped him in an old cloak so he looked like a pedlar with a hump back. She also dressed Ruth in a similar cloak so they both looked like beggars. Father Peters was staying at the cottage of Father Morley for a short time. She wasn’t sure how long for, but she hoped that he would still be there. They had all been there on several occasions, so Jack and Ruth knew where it was and it wouldn’t take longer than two or three hours if they hurried. They could be there before dark.
‘You must be safe. Now quickly go and make sure that you are not followed.’ As an afterthought she thrust a small sharp dagger into Jack’s belt. ‘Only use it if you have to.’
As they left from the rear gate, she rushed to bolt the front door. She was afraid. Griffin had incited hatred both at the inn and the church. He would see the death of her and seize the jewelled box.
How had this cunning fox managed to destroy her life? Her deep revulsion triggered a constant nausea.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Easter 1958
My dad was in an iron lung: an artificial breathing machine to rest his brain. He had sustained a nasty head injury and had to have immediate surgery to remove a clot that was causing pressure in his skull. We were warned that he may be in hospital for several weeks if not months.
You could tell Mum was beside herself with worry. She had mentioned to Gran how sitting by his bedside listening to the whirring and puffing of the breathing machine just made her jittery. Once back at home, her head was full of anxiety. Gran cooked meals for us but Mum hardly ate a thing:
‘Strange,’ she said one evening. ‘Who would have thought that a machine could keep breathing for you? Will he ever be able to breathe without it, I wonder?’
Gran reassured her. ‘This sort of injury, to the brain, I mean, takes ages, dear, to heal, but I’m sure he’ll come round and breathe without a machine and be all right in the end.’
Mum gave a smile of appreciation and patted Gran’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. You’re keeping the ship afloat here and I’m just being miserable and all wrapped up in myself. I am grateful, y’know. When we took on this big project, I didn’t consider anything like this might get in the way. Oh…he never really wanted to live here, Mum.’ She started to cry. ‘It would never have happened had we stayed where we were.’
‘Now, now, that’s not going to help. Don’t worry yourself. I’m enjoying keeping things running smoothly. I haven’t felt this needed in a long time and I feel so alive. There’s something magical about this place: the kids keep me young. You just concentrate on getting to the hospital and staying with Albert and…stop feeling guilty because it’s not your fault.’
*
George’s dad and Harry the electrician called round with a ‘Get Well’ card. They felt guilty for letting my dad drink so much when he wasn’t used to it. I was always suspicious of Harry. I thought he was a prying creep. In fact I did wonder whether him getting Dad drunk was intentional; whenever he went over the limit, he got pretty damn verbal. An ideal situation for revealing any ‘secrets’. Harry, I am certain, thought the manor was a hidden goldmine of Tudor treasure.
George was embarrassed, and stayed away from us. At school he was so subdued that I was surprised to find myself wishing for the normally irritating ‘babble’ mode to start again.
‘Look, George, it’s not your fault that Dad’s in hospital. He could’ve said no to all those beers and whiskies, y’ know. Why don’t you come again next weekend? Weather’s not bad now. Dad can’t say anything about us going back into the tunnel or digging outside. We can do what we want. Mum and Gran will be easy to get round, but if I see that priest when I’m on my own and he kills me, think how sorry you’ll feel then!’
That last statement got to him. His eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, he had to grin. I made a silly face, which made him laugh.
‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
*
It was six weeks since the accident. Mum started back at the library; it was a much-needed diversion for her, but she was increasingly fractious with me and didn’t want to hear anything about the mysteries of the house. She just wanted to know who would pay all the bills. Gran couldn’t help on a pension.
So she eventually asked if I could leave school and get a job or just a paper round. My studies did not matter. What did matter, she emphasised, was a steady income. Mum was panicking, but some of that might have been worry that Dad would not recover.
Dad remained stable but that was all. How much longer would it take before he recovered? How long does it take the brain to get enough rest? They said some stimulation may help, but how on earth do you stimulate someone locked into a breathing machine?
Gran reassured Mum.
‘He’ll be okay, Alice. Look, I have a surprise. Look everybody.’ Gran fetched a large brown package and put it on the table. ‘Help yourselves.’ Inside were five very large chocolate Easter eggs.
‘I thought everyone needed a treat. I bought these earlier today.’
There was a circle of wide eyed smiles and a chorus of ‘thanks, Gran’.
Then she added:
‘There’s something else. I called in the library and read that book Albert had picked up in the folklore section. It was all about Becton, but he didn’t read it properly: only the bit that said this house was haunted. Anyway, I wrote down the words, the history.’
She took a large sheet of paper from her apron pocket.
‘I’ll read them to you.’
‘The oldest house in the village is the Tudor manor house, Becton Manor, which dates back to the late sixteenth century. The original owner was the Earl of Becton a courtier of Queen Elizabeth. The Queen had granted him the position of Earl of Becton in 1585. He married Charlotte Mary Porter of Staffordshire, lady in waiting to the Queen.
There were two children of the marriage, Oliver and Mary. Lady Charlotte was still suffering from the death of her daughter Mary when her husband also died suddenly, after a suspected poisoning.
She laid the blame for both deaths on the medicine of a local herb wife, Kathleen Melton, who was subsequently accused of witchcraft and of living in an unholy union with a Catholic priest.
The name of the priest was Robert Peters.
Kathleen Melton was burnt at the stake close to the Hall, on Midsummer Night’s Eve, 1598. It is assumed her children, Jack and Ruth Melton, perished in a fire at their cottage on the very night of their mother’s death.
Soon afterwards, Becton Manor fell into disrepair.
For many years, subsequent owners have reported strange happenings at the house and no one appears to have lived there for very long. It is also said the house contains priest holes.
There are, however, reports of a feathered deterrent; sightings of a very large raven have been regularly documented by a number of the house’s owners. The bird, legend has it, appears to protect the house and able to pluck the eyes of anyone loitering. Some reports say the bird is actually the Catholic priest who was associated with the herb wife accused of being a witch.’
‘Wow! This really explains a lot,’ said George.
We each read Gran’s notes, digesting the information. I emphasised the relevant points which linked to our existing findings.
‘It just could be that the dark shadow I saw—well, sensed—in the tunnel, was this priest, this Father Peters. So, according to folklore, he lives again as a raven, making sure no one steals the treasure. That would make sense, why the bird won’t let us get near the tunnel.’
‘Sounds too mythical, Tom,’ said Gran. She left the room to put the kettle on. ‘Tea, anyone, with your chocolate?’
We nodded. ‘Hmmm.’
George was still analysing, ‘So the whispering you hear, could this be Oliver and his sister Mary, who was poisoned by that convicted witch?’
Annabel speculated, ‘The witch was burnt close to the hall, it reads. Could it be the field the other side of the track, where we had our bonfire?’
�
�Yeah… don’t you remember? I thought I saw a woman with long hair sort of glide through the flames then. I did tell you but you didn’t believe me. People were getting tired of my so-called wild imagination, so I didn’t say anything. She was gone in a second anyway.’
George looked pensive. ‘I didn’t say that I didn’t believe you when you told me at school. Wish I could have been there on Bonfire Night, to back it up; that was Mum not letting me come.’
‘What difference would it have made? No one ever believed me then.’
Gran now tried to be conciliatory. ‘Now, boys, that’s enough, I didn’t buy chocolate eggs to eat and then argue. We are making progress and you have to keep positive. Things like this don’t get solved overnight, and finding that information in an old library book is a gift. Don’t you think?’
My mum nodded. ‘Gran’s absolutely right, boys.’
George turned his attention to the chocolate egg.
‘Go on,’ Mum said, before laughing. ‘Get tucked in. We’re close, eh, to solving the mysterious events in this wonderful house! We have a silver Elizabethan chalice of great value. Now, we just need Dad to get better.’
It was a good time to reveal my other object of certain value, so I made an announcement, ‘I found some more treasure: a box in the tunnel. A metal box with a cross on the lid and lots of jewels all around it.’ I ran to fetch it.
Gran was smiling broadly as I left the room and I just noticed her squeezing my mum’s hand. I was pleased to see my mum a bit more positive.
George’s cheeks were soon bulging with too big a mouthful of chocolate, but it didn’t stop him making a suggestion to Mum. ‘You could take the chalice to the hospital and show it to Mr Winchett.’
‘You could take this to the hospital as well, now.’ I announced as I ran back into the room. I was very proud of the box even though the lid had jammed solid. It was very heavy, but was that the metal or what was inside it?
Everyone gathered round to touch it and admire it. Bit by bit I had polished it, over and over again, although the silver was still tarnished.
Gran took hold of it. ‘My God, this is magnificent. Yes Tom, I can see what you mean. It is tarnished but after the good job I did on the chalice, I think I can bring it to life.’
Mum actually looked impressed, ‘This must be worth a lot more than the chalice. It must have been beautiful. Where did you find this Tom?’
‘Err… in the tunnel, Mum.’
‘All right. I accept there is a tunnel and you are fascinated by it. What I do want to know, though: is this tunnel dangerous?’ You were given instructions not to go down.’
‘No, Mum, just smelly. Think the deposits from the cess pit gets into it and some rainfall…’ I was sharply interrupted by George.
‘Oh there’s lots of parts that are badly eroded, but over hundreds of years, what would you expect? You know I read somewhere that the earth…’
It was my turn to interrupt, ‘Not now George. Anyway Mum, yes, it’s damp but definitely not dangerous.’
Annabel opened her mouth. Knowing the idiot might say otherwise, I gave her the most evil expression I could muster.
‘Hmm. I don’t like the sound of the contents of the cess pit getting into it. Tom, that’s foul, don’t go down again or you’ll be ill with dysentery or something. Ugh.’
‘I don’t swallow it, Mum.’
‘Wish we could have a bathroom put in.’
‘You could, Alice, if you sold the chalice.’ Gran beamed.
For some reason, I didn’t like the sound of the objects being sold.
Annabel, after glaring back at me, was excited about the box. She and George were discussing how it opened, in between eating chocolate. We had no key and I heard Annabel say it shouldn’t get damaged.
‘Or covered in chocolate!’ I had to say, realising I was quite possessive about my find.
Gran’s thoughts were on its usefulness for dad. ‘The doctor wants all the senses to be used, to encourage Albert to wake up, so that means hearing, touching, smelling and sight. We have touch and hopefully sight here at least.’
‘There is another sense, I’ve read it…’ George beginning to enter babble mode.
‘We know, you read it somewhere.’
‘I was just thinking of the sense of ‘taste’, Tom, that’s all, but of course it’s not relevant here, unless you put some wine in the chalice. Ha! That’ll wake him up.’
‘Oh, George…’
Mum gave a polite chuckle, ‘Don’t argue, boys. I’ll take it and we’ll see. Anything is worth a try. He just has to wake up.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
June 1598
Jack and Ruth kept looking behind them on their way to Father Morley’s cottage. Jack fingered the sharpness of the knife in his belt. He imagined plunging it into the belly or even the heart of Edward Griffin. Yes: it would need to be the heart.
The memory of his mother’s expression in church angered him beyond measure. He almost wanted Griffin to jump out in front of him again so he could rush at him with the knife, angled to puncture straight through his heart. He would not be merciful.
They arrived at Father Morley’s cottage as dusk was falling. They were in good time. Father Peters was just about to leave, when Father Morley saw the children approach.
‘Were you expecting Kathleen’s children?’
‘No,’ said Father Peters simply. ‘There must be some trouble.’
Father Morley welcomed Jack and Ruth, but Father Peters was deeply concerned.
‘What is it? Where is your mother?’
Jack explained all that happened in the church and Griffin’s accusations. The priests looked at one another. Griffin would not waste time scheming.
He had truly incited enough fury for the vigilantes to come after poor Kathleen. Tonight was Midsummer’s Eve: the time for bonfires and the burning of witches. He had to hurry. He must turn the tide of hatred towards this man, who should be tried for murder, justifiably found guilty, and hanged, drawn and quartered.
As if reading his thoughts, Father Morley offered to look after the children while his friend made haste. Father Peters thanked him and mounted his horse to ride back to the cottage.
As he neared the summit of the hill near the cottage, he could see a golden glow enveloped by a sinister darkness on the horizon. The smell of burning grew stronger and he soon heard the crackle of timbers and saw sparks rising. He steadied his horse to survey the valley below. The scene below shocked and sickened him.
Kathleen’s home was fully ablaze. He rode quickly on, but the closer he got the more intense the heat, the angry dancing flames reaching for the evening sky. His horse neighed as they came too near to the cottage on fire.
A small crowd of people were trying to put out the blaze, using simple pails of water. There was panic and yelling. Where was Kathleen? He tied his agitated horse to a tree and strode briskly up to them.
‘Where is Kathleen? Where is she?’ he shouted, as the building started to collapse.
One of the men threw his pail of water towards the flames but it was clearly futile. He faced the priest.
‘They took her. I don’t know where. They looked for the children, but they must have perished in the flames. You are the priest they are looking for, aren’t you? You look like a man of the cloth. They’re hunting for you too, I warn you. A tall man came here with an angry mob; the same man who had accused Mistress Melton of witchery in the church. She didn’t have a chance, poor woman. I don’t think she’s guilty, she treated my family all right.’
There was a pause before the man asked, ‘Were you in an unlawful union?’
‘No, never. I helped her with her work. The man you speak of is the evil one,’ said Father Peters.
‘Aye, I believe you Father, but I don’t know what you can do.’
Two old ladies ran towards the man, carrying small pails of water. He nodded to them and took them, and they rushed back to the well to collect more. Father P
eters watched him throw them onto the flames. They were useless against such an inferno.
The man shouted, to be heard against the roar of the fire. ‘There were too many of them. They said she’d be tried in the morning for witchcraft, probably in the village rooms. You could go there, but they want your blood as well.’
Father Peters nodded and spurred his horse forward to the village rooms. He must stop this, no matter that his own life was in danger.
The small Assizes building was dark and quiet. He dismounted to investigate. Maybe she was inside, in a cell. The gloomy place was locked and no one was about, until a man’s voice shouted from across the street.
‘That’s him! The priest who lives with the witch!’
Father Peters mounted his horse as fast as he could muster, cursing his ageing years. He galloped as soon as the road was clear and headed back to Father Morley’s cottage, using the track through the woods which he knew so well. It was only when he came to a small clearing that he looked back.
A group of horsemen were lower down the hill, partly hidden by the woods. He needed to hurry back to the children.
A curse on Griffin. He would pay for this travesty.
At the cottage, he hurriedly dismounted, taking his horse into the stable. Puffing and panting, sweat running down his ruddy cheeks, he quickly entered the cottage, relieved to see his friend and the children.
‘We have no time to waste, there are horsemen near.’
‘We’ve already been visited, my friend. They are looking for you and the children. I had to hide them quickly. I don’t know if we can hold out. It will only take one to barge in here and search every inch of the place.’
‘Aye. I have to get them to the manor.’
Father Morley simply nodded. ‘You need to be in disguise. You must have a good story if you are stopped. Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Day and there will be feasting. You are going to sell your vegetables in the market, but you want to be early so you are stopping with a friend for some ale. Here are some pedlar’s rags… Been a while since you’ve worn anything like this, eh?’
The Curse of Becton Manor Page 18