Gran was pointing the outside water hose full pelt on the escaping man.
It bought us time to help Annabel, who was yelling for assistance. Mike Thompson was thrashing again.
George came to her rescue with the rope that luckily was always hanging on a hook outside the house. I went to help, glancing over to check that Mickey was all right. It was then I saw Mum. She was standing nervously, wielding a pitch fork, pointing to the cess pit where a figure doused in thick, slimy excrement was attempting to crawl out. It reminded me of the film ‘The Creature from the Black Lagoon.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Mum cried out in horror at the sight and the smell of him slithering closer, with the pitch fork swinging in her hand, but tentatively poking him.
After checking that Mike Thompson was securely tied up with the rope, I went to help Mum. The man started to cross the garden to escape but the slurry that entrapped his body forced him to fall. Gran, satisfied the man in the balaclava was immobilised, relentlessly attacked the lumpy creature with the hose pipe until he looked more human.
She finally clamped off the hose. I could see that she had thoroughly enjoyed that exercise. Using the good torch that she had quickly pulled out from her coat pocket, the men could be now be identified. I called Mickey to heel and all three men were more or less together, facing us.
‘Dad?’ George was shocked. There stood Arthur, with Harry the electrician by his side.
Mum prodded the lumpy man to stand a bit closer to his ‘comrades’. It felt like the preparation for an execution; rather worryingly, at that particular moment I could have shot them all. The third man was revealed to be the man who had installed our new oven, Sydney Fielding.
Arthur looked at his son.
‘I’m sorry, lad. Sydney said there was a heap of buried treasure down there. We couldn’t resist taking a look, that’s all: human nature, like. You know your mam would like more for you. It was all for you lad, all for you.’
Gran couldn’t keep quiet. ‘Huh, human nature, my…arse…’
‘Mum!’
Gran persisted, ‘You were all up to no good. Plain stealing, that’s what it is! You knew we were all at the hospital, didn’t you?’
‘These put me up to it.’ Arthur nodded towards his accomplices. The builder just stood pitifully, some of the foul-smelling sludgy excrement still stuck to him. There was no chance of him running away in that state.
Harry, however protested. ‘Hey, just a minute. You had a lot to say about it all. It was your idea, knowing what your lad brought out of that tunnel. You never told us it was so spooked, though, did you?’
Gran frowned. ‘Spooked?’
‘Yeah…we were pelted with stones and this big black thing threw Arthur to one side like a sack of spuds.’
Gran looked at me. ‘Well Tom, you know, I never thought that being haunted was actually a good burglar deterrent, eh? How things turn themselves around.’
‘How you put up with all that in your back garden, missus, amazes me.’ Harry continued.
Mum was furious as she faced Arthur.
‘If you weren’t George’s dad, I would call the police.’
I could see George holding back tears before he turned and ran into the house. Just then, Annabel yelled for help, unable to contain Mike Thompson anymore. The rope was loosening. Poor Annabel. Dorothy reached for her favourite weapon and directed the hose on him as well, until the water forced him back to the ground. I pulled him up and brought him to where the men were standing sheepishly. Mum, also taking a liking to her weapon, prodded him with the pitch fork that she still held in her hand.
‘So this is the beast who bullies my son, is it?’
‘It was a just bit of a lark. Let me go, let me go, missus!’
Gran chipped in, ‘I can give you a bit of a lark if that’s what you want, lad!’
Arthur looked sheepishly at Gran. ‘Look, we’ve had hard times this year. His mother worries all the time about money coming in and keeping the bills paid. Why shouldn’t he have a share of all this treasure anyway? He helped to find it, after all.’
‘Stealing is never the answer though is it, Arthur? What is that teaching George? You could have come and spoken to us if you were struggling and we would have worked something out, as friends do.’
Arthur, Harry and Sydney knew they were beaten.
‘How did you get here?’ Gran asked.
‘We have a car waiting, parked down the track,’ Harry muttered.
Of course, we came in the opposite way from the hospital. Arthur would have known that. The car was parked twenty or so yards away, well into the hedge.
Gran and I escorted the men to the car. There was a man sitting behind the wheel. I went to open the door.
‘Be careful, Tom,’ Gran said.
The man swung his body round in a panic. ‘What the…?’ It was Mr Haslam from the newspaper shop.
‘Oh, you’re in this game as well are you? Of course. You must have been itching to get your hands on treasure for years.’
He ignored me but yelled at the others as they approached the car.
‘How the hell did the three of you foul up against an old woman and a boy? What went bloody wrong? Christ, you stink!’
They said nothing, but got in the car.
Before Gran slammed the back door, she warned them, ‘It’s only because of poor George that I am not ringing the police. But we know all your names so when we can think of a suitable payback, we will let you know. Don’t go back thinking you’ve got away with it.’
I was impressed with Gran’s tactics. Been watching mafia films obviously.
We went back to where Annabel and Mum were guarding Mike Thompson, the pitch fork threatening him to keep still.
‘What were you doing here, Thompson?’ I asked. George had come out of the house now that his father had left. He had been crying but I said nothing. Mike Thompson wouldn’t answer me, but George, regaining his composure, spoke.
‘I’ll tell you how he got here. Sally lives not far from me and she came to tell me that Thompson and his cronies were coming to your house as soon as it got dark to find the tunnel. It’s my fault. I told her you were all going to see your dad, but then she bumped into Mike and told him that nobody would be at your house. When he said he was going to get his mates, she put two and two together.
‘He’s talked about trying to find the tunnel for months. Anyway, she felt guilty, so she came to my house. I had already told Dad the day before, so I guessed he was meeting up with his mates. So I rushed to get here first. Took me ages to shift that corrugated sheet, but I did it then waited for them in the smaller tunnel. I heard footsteps, then a man’s voice. I thought I recognised it but I wasn’t sure who it was, then I realised it was the builder—that man I don’t like—Sydney Fielding. He’s been in the nick before for robbery, I told you. Then I heard Harry and the pair of them were talking and laughing loudly, really excited they were. I didn’t hear my dad, because of a sudden rush of stones, grit, gravel, dust, everything. Nothing like we experienced, Tom. It was deafening.
‘The men were spooked, but something odd happened. As they were shielding their faces, Harry yelled. Behind him was a great bulk of black. Not sure if he was the priest, but the men couldn’t scramble out quick enough. It scared me frozen, but something else was out there.
‘I heard a splash, followed by a groan, then more footsteps, coming towards the tunnel.
‘Mike Thompson and his two cronies were climbing down the steps. I threw some stones at the walls to scare them, but the sound seemed to cause an avalanche, made worse by the echoes.
‘I did find it funny to see their backsides in competition for the way out. Mike was last and fell backwards on the steps, so I jumped out and grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him down into the tunnel again. He banged his head and, what do you know? The big class bully started to cry. Then you lot arrived and you know the rest.’
‘Great stuff George, for a little ’un.’
>
‘Yes,’ smiled Gran, ‘we are very proud of you, George.’
George looked chuffed. I turned to Mike Thompson. ‘Got anything to say then, have you?’
I thought he was going to vomit. He gulped a few times but shook his head.
‘I know it’s dark, lad,’ Gran said, ‘and you’re very wet and you don’t have a torch, but…it seems you were wanting to steal as well and that’s a matter for the police. They can see to you now.’
‘No, missus. My dad will go mad.’
‘Well, I can only suggest you start walking home then. One more thing…do you promise, with hands over your heart, never to bully anyone else again?’
There was a silence before she demanded.
‘Well? Should I call the police then?’
‘No, I promise…’
‘With my hand on my heart...’ Gran interrupted.
‘With my hand on my heart…to never bully anyone again.’
Gran nodded. ‘Or you will surely find the police at your door. Go on, be off with you.’
‘Gran,’ I said. ‘He has to walk about three miles.’
Annabel had her say. ‘So what? It’ll do him good.’ She glared at him and, taking the fork from her mum, prodded him.
‘He’s had his warning,’ Gran cautioned her. They watched him hobble away.
‘Aren’t we giving him a torch?’
‘No! Don’t be soft, Tom.’ Annabel was turning into a hard nut. ‘Anyway, the men will be walking by now.’
‘Why?’
‘While you were talking to them at the car, I used a knife to slash the tyres.’
‘Annabel!’
Surprisingly, Gran laughed out loud, and Mum joined in. She had surprises up her sleeve, my sister. We turned towards the house. ‘C’mon, it’s getting late. But whether any of us will sleep is another matter.’
We went into the house and Mum put the kettle on.
‘Oh, come on, Alice. After all that’s happened, isn’t there any whisky?’ Gran asked.
I slapped Annabel gently on the back.
‘You were a bit cruel back there, sis, but well done.’ She gave a proud smile.
We sat at the table and watched Gran pour a whisky and then Mum do the same. We laughed. What a day!
George didn’t want to go home. ‘There is a sleeping bag George,’ said Mum. ‘At least your dad knows where you are. You stay here, love. I’m sorry about what’s happened’.
George said nothing but nodded.
Mum changed the subject. ‘This house is full of surprises, eh? Oh, hope it won’t do any harm, leaving that iron sheeting off that hole tonight?’
‘It’ll be fine, Mum. I doubt we will get more burglars tonight.’
Annabel and I smirked. There was an unspoken knowledge of what we would be up to tomorrow morning. Exploring the tunnel without having to remove the iron sheeting was a great start.
Chapter Twenty Eight
June 1958
Gran was right: sleep did not come easy following the bungled robbery. There were so many thoughts running amok in my head. I was so impatient to get to the truth; well, as much truth as I could muster after four hundred years.
George in the sleeping bag was also fidgety, so I persuaded him to have another go at trying to open the jewelled box, but nothing happened. He gave up, still looking sad and being quiet. His dad’s attempt to steal from us shocked him. I tried again.
‘Oh leave it, Tom. We’ll try it tomorrow. If we force it, we’ll damage it.’ He snuggled down in his sleeping bag, eager to shut out the day’s events.
Before closing my eyes I looked towards the fireplace. I thought of the boy in the tunic, but I was far too tired to dwell on him.
*
The next morning, a Saturday, Gran and Mum were debating what to use to clean the box. Mum said to use alcohol and we only had whisky, but Gran’s face dropped.
‘Oh no, Alice. You can’t possibly be thinking of using my whisky to clean something. What sacrilege! We’ll use baking soda and hot water to make a paste. Works wonders: abrasive but not harmful.’
Mum was not convinced.
George was still a bit quiet at breakfast. His face usually lit up at food, but today he was subdued. We all noticed and Mum offered to drive him home to see his mum and dad. They needed to talk, but he refused. She didn’t push him.
It was odd, like a part of his life had been snuffed, perhaps like someone who had undergone one of those lobotomies where they take out the frontal lobe and leave you without emotion. The babbling used to irritate me so much…and now, surprisingly, I was missing it.
Meanwhile, Gran laid out some newspaper and began to clean the box with the baking soda paste. She rubbed hard.
‘Don’t scratch it, Gran,’ I warned, but she puffed, saying it had been scratched umpteen times over three and a half centuries.
I quizzed them about when they were going out. George and Annabel kept looking at me, their eyes begging me to persuade them to leave the house.
By late morning, Gran was pleased with her efforts in cleaning and polishing the box. I didn’t know much about precious stones, but around the perimeter of a beautifully inlaid gold cross was a pattern of alternating coloured stones. The pattern was repeated around a square set in the axis. The stones looked like emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds. Some were rounded and others like the diamonds were cut to a point. It was exquisite.
The cross itself was in the middle of the now shiny metallic box, the surface adorned with gold-coloured swirls. There were some patches of tarnished metal but not many. Gran had done a good job. The box measured eight inches by six inches, with a depth of about five inches. This, I was sure, was much more valuable than the chalice.
I praised my mum. ‘Wow, Mum, you’ve done a great job there. It looks beautiful.’
George quietly nodded.
There was a knocking sound on glass in the hall. We all looked at each other, a bit shocked.
‘Cover it, quick,’ Mum said.
Gran frowned. ‘Alice, we can’t go on suspecting that everyone is a thief, dear.’
Nevertheless, Mum got a tea towel and flung it over the box before going to investigate the knocking.
She came back in, exasperated. ‘That raven is perched on the window sill of the little window in the entrance hall. He’s such a nuisance and looks really evil. We’ll have to do something about it.’
‘I know,’ Gran said. ‘Make sure he never gets in the house I suppose…God, that really is a possibility. He could harm us, I’m darn certain of that, but now, Alice, we must go to the hospital.’
‘Yes what a good idea!’ I was almost too enthusiastic. ‘You can both catch early visiting then you won’t tire Dad so much. Evening visiting has tired him out.’
Gran gave me that ‘You’re up to something’ look. As they put on their coats, she remembered something. ‘Oh Tom, your mum and I will take the box because, as well as showing it to your dad, we have made an appointment to value it at the antiques place near the hospital.’
We three kids gaped with excitement. Soon, we will know how much the box is worth.
*
Gran and Mum left for the hospital.
Annabel, George and me simply climbed down the steps into the vault, each with a torch. The last bit of the puzzle remained, the little tunnel off to the left. We were all a bit nervous, now that we knew the dark mass or priest may in fact be threatening and there was a possibility of an onslaught of grit and stones. I had asked George what he thought caused this and hoped he would show some interest. He did. ‘Apparently any noisy disturbance sets it off. Pure observation, I haven’t read it anywhere.’
‘Well observed, George. Shows you can learn things by other ways, rather than reading, eh?’
‘Hmm…’
I told Annabel to wait with George while I investigated the small tunnel, as quietly as possible. The entrance was about three feet from the ground. George had the impression from when he was h
iding there that it could be quite long.
As I crawled along the narrow passage, through rough gravel and ample dust, I could smell the stench of mould and decay. Woodlice scurried away from my torchlight and spiders’ cobwebs stuck to my hair and face. Ugh. I wiped them quickly away and licked the dust from my lips.
Shining my torch ahead, I could see that the narrow passage bent slightly to the left. It was so small that I was practically crawling on my belly. I glanced behind me to see debris starting to fall from above. My nerve started to falter. I had visions of being buried alive and realised how people with claustrophobia suffered. I had to carry on.
The smell was now more like the cess pit. Of course: it must be close. I wondered if I’d be able to get out into the garden again by yet another route. The air had become so dank, thick and nauseating.
I reached another tiny vault just to the right and, focusing the torchlight slowly from left to right, the sight before me was breath-taking.
Nestled in the middle of the chamber, was a pile of blackened bones and two small skulls, obviously human bones. Huddled together…starvation maybe? Could these be the bones of the whispering children? But why were they buried down here? Were they trapped by accident, or had they been left here deliberately? Before death or afterwards?
I shouted George and Annabel. ‘Come quick, come here.’
The bloody echo: ‘Come here, quick.’ quick…quick.’
Forgetting the assumption that loud noises caused a swirl of grit, I cursed. The walls seemed to vibrate, but it wasn’t just the grit flying everywhere. The sound of voices bounced off the walls resonating through the entire tunnel, which I imagined collapsing with the cacophony. Latin voices, the echo almost unbearable as it was so repetitive:
‘Libera nos, Sancta Pater...libera nos…Sancta Pater…libera nos…’
Gritty debris was swirled upwards by force, just as a tornado does.
‘STOP’ I yelled, my hands covering my ears. ‘STOP! STOP!’
I shielded my face from the sharpness of the pelts, gave a last look at the bones, and then headed down the passageway at full speed. My knees stinging from the bleeding of sharp grazes, I could only open my eyes for short flickers as grit continued to bombard me.
The Curse of Becton Manor Page 22