He double-tapped the side of the dormant gen with the flat of his hand.
‘Later,’ he promised, wiping dust from his fingers on his jeans as he made his way through the sundry litter to the doorless opening that led into the main cellar.
Gabe loved machinery of any kind. He loved tinkering with anything from car engines to broken clocks. Years before, until Eve had made him give it up for his family’s sake, he had enjoyed stripping down the old motorbike he had owned, putting it back together perfectly each time. It was something he did for fun rather than repair. Back at their London home, in the spare room he used as an office, there were shelves full of venerable mechanical tin toys – marching soldiers, brightly coloured train engines, tiny vintage motorcars and trucks – and clocks bought mainly from junk shops as well as car boot sales, all of which he’d taken apart, then reassembled. Most of them, broken before, were now in working order. He even enjoyed the smell of heavy machinery – the grease, the oil, the aroma of metal itself. He enjoyed the sound of engines at high and low throttle, the purr of a machine idling, the clunk of turning cogs or clicks of ratchets. In the past he had liked nothing better than on a Saturday morning dragging his children, as young as they were, along to South Kensington’s Science Museum to see the giant steam-train engines housed there, climbing up into the cabs with them to explain every wheel and lever it took to get the great machines moving. To his credit, because of his enthusiasm, only Loren had been bored by the fourth visit. Cally, held in her father’s arms, was much too young to be impressed, but Cam went rigid with excitement and awe every time he saw the great iron mammoths.
Gabe quickly sidelined the memory: today had to be an ‘up’ day, a keep-busy day, for Eve’s sake as well as his own. It was the first time they’d left their real home, with all its associations, since—
He cursed himself, forcing the lachrymose thoughts away. Eve needed his full support, particularly now that the anniversary of Cam’s disappearance was so close. She was afraid the police would be unable to contact them with any news of their missing son, any clues to his whereabouts – and, hopefully, word that he was still alive, that his abductors were merciful and merely keeping their little boy for themselves – but Gabe had assured her that the police had their new temporary address and phone and cell numbers. He and Eve could be back in the city within a few hours if necessary. But when she had argued that Cam might just turn up on the doorstep on his own to find the house empty, Gabe had been at a loss for comforting words because a small part of him – a small hopelessly desperate part of him – held out for the same thing.
Before passing through the opening into the main basement area, he paused to examine an unusual contraption standing in the shadows left of the doorway, his thoughts at least distracted for a moment. He peered closer, squinting in the shadowy gloom.
The object had two solid-looking wooden rollers, one on top of the other, the smallest of gaps between, and on one side there was an iron wheel with a handle, presumably for turning them. Gabe smiled in quiet awe as he recognized the device for what it was: it was an old-fashioned mangle, used for wringing out water from freshly laundered clothes, the wet material passed through the tight rollers so that the water was squeezed from them. He’d seen one in a book once, but never in the flesh as it were. In the olden days it seemed every home had to have one standing out in the yard or garden. The modern tumble-dryer had taken its place.
Delighted, he touched the rusty cog wheel, then gripped the iron handle, but when he tried to turn it the wooden wheels refused to budge. He shone his light closer, examining the rusted parts, and for a while he was lost to all else. Scrape away the surface rust, clean up the metal, a liberal oiling of the cogs, followed by a smearing of industrial grease, and the mangle would be fine again. Useless, of course, in this day and age – he couldn’t see Eve coming down to wring out their clothes with it – but an interesting part of household history.
He stood away from the old mangle, shaking his head in amused wonder, then turned to leave the boiler room. As he did so, the tip of his boot hit something hard and sent it scudding a couple of feet across the dusty floor with a sharp grating noise. He stooped to pick it up and discovered it was a two-foot length of hard metal, two inches or so wide with a round hole at its centre and bevelled edges. It looked like some integral part of a machine, but Gabe had no idea what. He hefted it in his free hand, feeling its weight. Maybe it came from some old gardening machinery, he considered, or maybe—
The small cry came from somewhere next door, barely audible over the noise of the rushing underground river at the bottom of the well. Quickly he stepped through the doorway into the main cellar and heard the faint voice again. Most parents are attuned to the sound of their own child’s cry and Gabe was no exception. Cally was calling to him and there was something urgent in her voice.
‘Daddy! Daddy! Mummy says come – ’ there was a short break while she remembered the last words – ‘right away!’
Gabe tossed the metal bar aside and hurried towards the narrow staircase that led from the cellar.
4: PERCY JUDD
She was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, a hand holding open the cellar door, her small tousled head poking through, obviously heeding his warning never to go down on her own. Gabe climbed the stairs rapidly, poor light overhead and his flashlight lighting the way, and Cally took a step backwards, frightened by the grimness of his expression.
‘What’s wrong, Cally?’ he asked even before he reached the top step.
‘Man,’ she told him, pointing towards the kitchen.
Gabe strode past her, touching her head lightly as he went. ‘It’s okay, Skip,’ he reassured her gently and she trotted after him, unable to keep up with his determined stride.
The old man stood on the threshold of the kitchen’s outer door to the small piece of garden at the side of the house, rainwater dripping off his hooded stormcoat and muddy Wellington boots onto the rough-bristled welcome mat. Gabe came to a halt just inside the hall doorway, surprised and wondering what the fuss had been about, why he had been called so urgently.
Eve, whose back was to Gabe, quickly half-turned at his approach and said, ‘Oh, Gabe, this is Mr . . . Mr Judd, isn’t it?’ She returned her attention to the stranger for affirmation.
‘Judd, missus,’ said the man, ‘but call me Percy. First name’s Percy.’
He spoke with a soft West Country burr that Gabe warmed to immediately.
‘’Fraid I couldn’t stop it, mister, doggie ran right past me.’ It came out as roit pas’ me.
Gabe appraised the visitor as he walked towards him. He was short and thin, his face weather-ruddied, cheeks and nose flushed with broken capillaries. The hood of his three-quarter coat was pushed back, but he wore a tweed flat cap, silver hair springing from the rim to brush the tops of his large and long-lobed ears.
‘Hey,’ Gabe said in greeting, stretching out a hand, and the other man looked momentarily puzzled. Gabe corrected himself. ‘Hello.’
The old boy had a good firm grip, Gabe noted, and his proffered hand was hard with calluses, the knuckles gnarled and bony, evidence of long-time manual labour.
‘What’s this about Chester?’ Gabe asked, looking round at Eve.
‘He scooted out as soon as I opened the door,’ she told him.
‘Won’t’ve gone fer in this rain, missus.’ It was gorn instead of ‘gone’. ‘Sorry, but I gave the missus bit of a shock when I looked through the window. Frightened the doggie, too. Shot past me when the door was opened.’
‘Percy was telling me he’s Crickley Hall’s gardener,’ Eve said, eyebrows raised at Gabe.
‘Gardener and handyman, mister. I looks after Crickley Hall, even when nobody’s livin’ in the place. ’Specially then. I comes in coupla’ times a week this time of year. Jus’ enough to keep the house and garden in good order.’
To Gabe, Percy appeared too ancient to be of much use either in the garden or in the hou
se. But then he shouldn’t underestimate country folk; this old-timer was probably as hardy as they come, despite his years. He felt himself being surveyed by blue eyes that were faded like washed denim and hoped that in his old jeans, leather boots and sweater, his hands and forearms grimy with dirt from the cellar (he wasn’t aware of the smudge across his nose and cheek), he didn’t disappoint as the new tenant of Crickley Hall.
‘You take care of the gen?’ he asked and, on seeing the puzzlement return to Percy’s face again, added: ‘The generator, I mean.’
‘No, mister, but I looks after the boiler. Used to run the old furnace on coal an’ wood, but now it’s on the oil and ’lectric, so it’s easy. Tanker comes out whenever it’s runnin’ low and stretches its feeder pipe over the bridge to the tank behind the house. Don’t know ’bout the gen’rator though. Don’t rightly unnerstand the blessed thing.’
‘Guess I can fix it myself,’ Gabe said. ‘The agent told me you get a lot of power cuts in these parts.’
‘Always somethin’ interferin’ with the lines, fallin’ trees, ligh’nin’ strikes. The gen’rator was installed ’bout fifteen years ago. Crickley Hall’s owner got fed up with using candles an’ oil lamps all the time, as well as eatin’ cold dinners.’ Percy gave a dry chuckle at the thought. ‘Yer’ll be needin’ the gen’rator in good workin’ order all right.’
‘Who is the owner of this place? The agent never said.’
Eve was interested in the answer to Gabe’s question too, wondering who would choose to live permanently in such a bleak mausoleum. Even though the big hall beyond the kitchen was imposing, there was still a cheerlessness about it.
‘Fellah by the name of Templeton. Bought Crickley Hall some twenny years ago. Never stayed long though, weren’t happy here.’
That came as no surprise to Eve.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee, Percy?’ she asked.
‘Cuppa tea’ll do me.’ His smile revealed teeth that resembled a row of old crooked and weathered headstones.
Gabe pulled out a chair from the kitchen table for the old gardener and invited him to sit down. Percy removed his cap as he ambled forward and took his seat. Although his silver hair was full over his ears and round the back of his neck, it was sparse over the top of his head.
‘Coffee for you, Gabe?’ Eve had moved to the sink and was filling the plastic kettle they’d brought with them.
‘Yeah, please.’ Gabe pulled out a chair for himself and carefully moved Cally’s painting aside. He noticed his daughter had remained in the doorway.
‘She’s a bonny miss,’ observed Percy, giving a small wave of his fingers. She responded by smiling and coyly sidling up to the back of Gabe’s chair and hanging on to it.
It was Eve who introduced her. ‘This is Cally, our youngest. Her real name is Catherine after my mother, but ever since she understood our surname is Caleigh she’s insisted on being called her version of it. Our older daughter, Loren, is busy upstairs at the moment.’
‘Hello, missy.’ Percy stuck out a gnarled old hand to be shaken and Cally shyly touched it with her fingers, withdrawing them swiftly once she’d done so. Percy chuckled again.
‘So tell me, Percy,’ said Gabe, leaning his forearms on the table, ‘who built the house?’
‘Crickley Hall was built at the beginnin’ of the last century by a wealthy local man by the name of Charles Crickley. He owned most of the harbour’s fishing fleet and all the limekilns hereabouts. Great benefactor to the village, he were, but ended up an unhappy man by all accounts. Wanted to make more of Hollow Bay, make it a tourist attraction, but the locals went agin’ him, didn’t want no changes, wanted the place peaceful like, holidaymakers be damned. All but broke him in the end. Fishin’ stocks dropped, South Wales stopped sendin’ limestone ’cross the channel to his kilns, and money he invested smartenin’ up Hollow Bay for the tourists came to nothin’. Locals even voted agin’ him building a pier for pleasure boats an’ such in the bay itself.’
‘But Charles Crickley built this place,’ Gabe prompted.
‘Drew the plans for it hisself, he did. Weren’t one for fancy ideas.’
‘That explains a lot,’ said Eve as she poured boiling water over a tea bag in a cup.
‘No one likes the look of Crickley Hall,’ commented Percy with a sigh. ‘Don’t like it much meself, never have done.’
‘You’ve worked here a long-time?’ Eve was now pouring water over the coffee granules.
‘All me life. Here and the parish church, I’ve looked after ’em both. They gives me help with the churchyard nowadays, but I takes care of Crickley Hall on my own. Like I says, jus’ a coupla days a week, I come in. Tend the garden mainly.’
He must be seventy-something if he’s a day, thought Gabe, glancing at Eve.
‘Only time I didn’t,’ Percy went on, ‘were towards the end of the last world war. Sent abroad then, to fight for me country.’
Yup, Gabe confirmed to himself, definitely in his late seventies or early eighties even, if he’d been old enough to fight the Germans back then. He studied the short, wiry man with interest.
‘Ol’ Crickley blasted a shelf out of Devil’s Cleave with dynamite,’ Percy continued, ‘then built his home on it. Then he dug down to the ol’ river that runs underground down the Cleave, made hisself a well in Crickley Hall’s cellar. Even though the Bay River was only yards from his front door, he must’ve reckoned he’d have his own fresh water supply inside the house. Maybe he thought it were purer that way. An’ he liked things simple, did Crickley, plain like. Only fancy part were the big hall itself.’
‘Yeah, we noticed,’ agreed Gabe.
‘If he liked things simple,’ put in Eve, ‘and presumably functional, that must be why the kitchen is at the front.’
‘The las’ of the Crickleys lef’ here in ’39,’ Percy went on unbidden, ‘jus’ afore the shebang in Europe started. They wanted to avoid the trouble, thought England were doomed. Scarpered off to Canada, while I stayed on to work ’til I got my call-up papers. Be then, gov’mint had requisitioned the place ’cause it were empty an’ they thought it’d do for evacuees. Sold coupla times since – Crickleys didn’t want it no more – then the Templetons come along an’ bought it. Retired early, Mr Templeton sold his business – somethin’ to do with packagin’ he told me – an lef’ the city fer the countryside. Thought him an’ his missis would be content, like, down here.’
She handed Percy his tea and he took it with a nod of gratitude. He blew into the cup to cool it as Eve came back to the table with Gabe’s steaming coffee.
‘I’ve just spotted Chester out there sitting under the tree with the swing,’ she said anxiously. ‘He’s looking very sorry for himself.’
‘Let him sulk for a while,’ said Gabe. ‘I’ll get him in a minute. He’s gotta get used to this place.’
Percy carefully put his cup back onto the saucer. He said gravely: ‘Pets don’t shine to Crickley Hall.’
Eve returned her gaze to the mongrel, feeling sorry for Chester sitting out there all alone, evidently confused by their long journey away from the home he had always known. Even from the kitchen window she could see that Chester was shivering.
She tapped on the glass to get his attention while the two men behind her continued talking. But the dog wouldn’t look her way. He seemed rapt on something quite close to him.
The swing. The swing was swaying gently, but more so than before, when they had first arrived: back and forth it went, almost as if someone – a child – were sitting on it. But of course it was empty.
Must be the wind, Eve thought. But then, although it was raining, the leaves and the tree branches were perfectly still, as were the shrubbery and the longer tufts of grass. There was no wind.
5: LOREN CALEIGH
Wearing a yellow Fat Face long-sleeved T-shirt and beige fatigues more suited to summer than autumn, Loren pulled up her younger sister’s baby-blue bedsheet and plumped up the Shrek and Princess Fiona pill
ow. She reached for the colourful Shrek, Fiona and Donkey duvet at her feet and dragged it up onto the narrow bed, which was twin to her own bed a few feet away. Dad and ‘Uncle’ Vern had brought them from their real home and put them together a week ago (she and Cally had slept in the spare room until the move). Her long brown hair hung over her face as she tucked the duvet’s end and sides under the mattress and when she stood upright there was a frown marring her features.
Loren was at that sensitive, awkward stage of being neither a teenager nor a child, a time when hormones were kicking in and sudden outbreaks of tears were not uncommon. Her thin arms and legs were beginning to develop beyond cuteness. Although she didn’t feel it, she was just a normal pre-teenager.
She didn’t like Crickley Hall, she didn’t like it at all. Away from her friends, having to start a new school on Monday where she would stand out like a freak, a city girl among country bumpkins. It wasn’t fair. It was too harsh.
Then she remembered the main reason for the temporary move. It wasn’t just because of Dad’s job – he often spent weeks away from home on various engineering assignments. No, this time it was because they had to get Mummy away from their proper house. Loren’s eyes glistened as she thought of Cameron; what a lovely little brother he was. Now he was gone and Mummy still hadn’t got over it. It hadn’t been her fault. Mummy was tired and couldn’t help falling asleep on the park bench. Cam had just wandered off and someone bad had taken him. Loren tried to imagine who could be that bad, what wicked person would snatch a small boy away and keep him all this time. Why didn’t they bring him back, or let him go so that the police or someone kind could find him and bring him home to his family? Who could be that dreadful?
The Secret of Crickley Hall Page 3