‘Oh Gabe, why did we have to come here?’
He gently shushed her, his face only inches from hers. ‘The cops know where to find us. DI Michael said if he found anything new he’d contact us immediately. They’re not gonna stop looking ’til they get a result.’
Cam . . . missing . . . no sign of him for nearly a year. Was that good? Or was it bad? Surely if Cameron were dead they’d have found his body by now.
The detective inspector had let them both know he wasn’t hopeful, but Eve clung to the belief that if their son had been murdered then they’d have some evidence of it by now – like his body. She could not let go of that thought. And in a way, neither could he, Gabe. There had to be some hope, otherwise . . . otherwise there was nothing.
They began walking again, the girls well ahead of them by now. On their left, the gorge’s swollen river hurtled down to the bay, its level not far below the grassy, shrub-filled bank; the waters were brown and angry with spume. The thick naked limb of a tree swept by. The sky was leaden, dark cloud masses promising more rain to come. The girls had realized they were walking alone, their parents some way behind. They both turned and waited for Eve and Gabe to catch up.
‘Come on, slowcoaches,’ Loren complained. Cally was studying the wet shine on her colourful rubber boots, her shoulders drooping; she was growing tired of the hike. As they approached she pointed over her shoulder.
Raising her voice over the rushing noise of the river, she called out, ‘Look, Mummy, that old church again.’
They had passed the ancient Norman church on their way down to the harbour earlier and Eve had suggested they visit inside for a few minutes, but the girls were hungry and totally uninterested. Gabe had half promised they’d go in on the way back, but he knew his wife would hold him to it. Since the loss of their son, Eve had attended Mass regularly every Sunday (she had mostly been a Christmas and Easter worshipper before) and often during the week when their local church was usually empty. He was aware of what she prayed for; she still believed.
The church was built with grey, probably local, stone, as was the irregular wall around its boundary. It was a small but solid structure, with a square tower surmounted by a short steeple, a weathervane at the steeple’s apex. The escarpment, lush with the deep greenery of trees and thick scrub despite the late season, rose up majestically behind the building and Gabe thought, not for the first time, that Devil’s Cleave was more like a deep-sided valley than a gorge. A gravel path from the wall’s lychgate led to the porch through a grassy graveyard; headstones dark with age leaned as if wearied, an occasional elm tree breaking up the quiet grimness of the landscape.
Close to the gateway was a mounted wooden board with faded gold lettering announcing that this was THE CHURCH OF ST MARK and the vicar was one REVEREND ANDREW TREVELLICK and his curate was ERIC RISSEY, all of this in neat capital letters. Underneath, also in faded gold, were times of services, and below this, in caps again but the largest message of all, it said: ‘IN GOD WE TRUST’.
Yeah, right, Gabe said to himself as he read the comfort legend.
‘I want to go inside,’ insisted Eve, stepping towards the closed gate, her tone allowing no dissent this time.
Loren pulled a face, while Cally wasn’t bothered either way.
‘Sure,’ agreed Gabe, his spirits sinking.
The gate opened with a squeal and they all passed through. As they trudged along the path, Gabe saw that the gravestones, some larger and more ornate than others, continued round to the side and possibly the back of the church. They crunched their way to the porch, glad of its cover even though the rain was now no more than a light drizzle.
Eve tested the black metal handle and one side of the big door opened easily. She stepped inside and the others followed, Gabe reluctantly. Although it was gloomy in there, stained-glass windows glowed brightly above them despite the poor light of the day. There was only one centre aisle, with pews on either side, that led to the high pulpit and altar. Some of the pews near the front had little doors on them so that the seats were segregated from the rest, and Eve assumed that these were once for the more important families of the community – probably still were. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she went to an open pew halfway down the aisle. She knelt on the padded knee-rest and bowed her head into her hands.
Loren looked round at Gabe and he gave a short nod of his head. She went to a pew just behind Eve’s and Cally followed. Cally sat on the wooden bench while Loren joined her mother in prayer.
At the back of the church, Gabe wished that he could have their faith. All he felt was anger, though, anger at a God who could put them through such agony. If there was a God, of course. If He did exist, then He seemed to care little for the part of His creation called mankind.
Gabe’s fists clenched and his teeth bit into his lower lip. He wanted to pound the stone pillar beside him with his fist. But instead, he turned away and let his anger subside into bitterness. Let Eve and Loren pray for their miracle. As for him, he knew miracles never happened. Not in this life, they didn’t. And this was the only life anyone ever had.
Gabe turned away and paced the uneven stone floor, straining to drive these useless thoughts from his mind as he went to the other side of the church. It was then he saw all the names on a polished board mounted on the rear wall of the church. In fact there were two boards, side by side, but it was the first one that made him pause.
The lettering was inscribed in white yellowed by age and it was the heading that had caught his attention:
IN MEMORY OF THE POOR ORPHANS WHO PERISHED IN THE GREAT STORM OF 1943
Below this there followed a list of all the children who had died in that storm:
ARNOLD BROWN – 7 yrs
MAVIS BORRINGTON – 7 yrs
PATIENCE FROST – 6 yrs
BRENDA PROSSER – 10 yrs
GERALD PROSSER – 8 yrs
STEFAN ROSENBAUM – 5 yrs
EUGENE SMITH – 9 yrs
MAURICE STAFFORD – 12 yrs
SUSAN TRAINER – 11 yrs
MARIGOLD WELCH – 7 yrs
WILFRED WILTON – 6 yrs
Reading the names of all these dead children – orphans every one of them – almost broke Gabe right there and then. He had contained his anguish, his debilitating grief, for nearly a year now so that he could be resolute for Eve and their daughters, refusing to break, to weep, to expose the weakness he felt in such adversity, because his family needed his strength, especially Eve, who blamed herself. Now today, inside this small ancient church, absorbing the poignant death list on this board before him, Gabe’s self-control wavered. Sixty-eight, the shopkeeper in the village had told them, sixty-eight victims either drowned or crushed. How many other kids had been among that number?
He lowered his gaze, stared sightlessly at the stone floor beneath him, his shoulders slumped.
He was aware enough to realize his sorrow was looking for expression, a release, so that once unmasked the healing might begin. And this plain but emotive memorial to all those lost children was almost the catalyst that bent him, for it confirmed his own despair at the perpetuity of life’s unfailing cruelty – happiness was only in the pauses between suffering.
He regretted having entered the church. For two months after Cam had disappeared, Gabe had accompanied Eve and their daughters to Sunday Mass – and only because he wanted to support Eve, not because he had suddenly seen the light and thought miracles might just happen if you prayed hard enough – but when nothing had changed, when there was still no trace of Cam after all that time, he had desisted. And Eve had not urged him to go with her any more, because she understood the bitter anger that was beginning to rage inside him, was aware that, for him, attending Mass was doing more harm than good. When he was a juvenile, Gabe had spent time in the Illinois Institute for Delinquent Boys, where he had been obliged to attend chapel twice a week, but in those days he had been cool about it; it beat working in the sweltering laundry room or raking dirt on
the drill yard. Chapel service meant little to him, but at least it gave him the chance to think for an hour – thinking time was at a premium on a campus full of wayward, excitable youths. Sure, in those days he was resentful – he figured he had a right to be – but he never blamed God for his circumstances then. Didn’t blame Him because he didn’t believe in Him, despite the sermons and the priest’s entreaties.
But Eve had mellowed Gabe and, even though she hadn’t necessarily been deeply religious herself when they were first married, she had gradually coaxed him to see the goodness around him, and that this spirit of goodness had to come from somewhere. She hadn’t made him believe in a Supreme Being, but he no longer dismissed the idea out of hand. And the blessings that were their children opened up his heart even more. There was a period of time when he had wanted to believe.
Gabe deliberately trod lightly as he made his way out of St Mark’s and it took some effort. It was not that he felt contempt for Eve’s so-called ‘Supreme Being’ – whatever that meant – it was just that he had no respect for Him. If He existed.
Gabe left the church, closing the door quietly behind him, not wanting to disturb Eve at her devotions – her pleadings. Outside, in the light drizzle, for the first time since he’d given them up, he wished for a cigarette. That had been when Eve had become pregnant with their first child, Loren, and that, for him, was reason enough. He needed a smoke now, maybe even a large shot of Jack Daniel’s. Cold anger was returning like a winter season and it smothered the grief. He walked round to the other side of St Mark’s, where the gorge wall rose sheer and abundant with trees and foliage. In the grassy space between church and gorge were more headstones.
He saw them at once, for they were better tended than the other graves around them. Their small headstones were clean even though over half a century old and their carved inscriptions were clear. The small plots were set out in a tidy row and bunches of wild flowers were in water jars below the headstones. In the rain, the flowers looked fresh, vibrant, and Gabe wondered who had put them there. Perhaps it was a kind of ceremony, the flowers laid out every year in the month of October; Gabe had already glanced at the preface of the book bought in the village store and it had said the Great Storm, as it was called, had occurred in the October of 1943.
He read the names on the neat little headstones and noticed that the Prosser children – obviously brother and sister – had been laid side by side. Arnold Brown, 1936–1943, Patience Frost, 1937–1943, Eugene Smith, 1934–1943, and so on. Gabe felt his eyes moisten, but he would not give in to tears now. His anger became subdued. But there was something wrong about this setting, some small thing that nagged at him.
He walked further into the hidden cemetery, distracting himself by reading the messages on other markers, noticing that all the lives here had ended in 1943. So this was where some of the adult victims of the flood were buried, along with the children. These other graves, though, had not been as well cared for. They were stained, weather-worn, lichen growing on most. It seemed the children were better remembered than the older flood victims. And maybe that’s how it should be.
He was almost at the angled rise of the gorge when he spotted the stone hiding in long grass and weeds and, because it was set aside from all the other graves, Gabe was curious.
The American squatted before it and parted the long grass and weeds so that he could read the headstone’s inscription. It said:
AUGUSTUS THEOPHILUS CRIBBEN
1901–1943
No other words had been carved into the stone. No RIP, no IN LOVING MEMORY. Nothing. Just the birth and death dates. 1943: the same year as the flood. A flood victim like all the others in this part of the church cemetery? It seemed likely. But then why was this grave set apart from the others? And why so neglected? If the man had no living descendants to tend his resting place, surely St Mark’s curate or groundsman would have made sure the stone was not practically obscured by grass and weeds like this; after all, the rest of the graveyard, front and back, was kept quite orderly. It was almost as if this particular grave had some shame to it.
Gabe stood erect, feeling strangely disturbed without knowing why. Maybe it was because he was still puzzling over whatever nagged him about the children’s neat line of graves.
With a shake of his head, he turned away and headed back to the porch, hoping Eve would be waiting for him there; he had no urge to re-enter the church. Before he reached the corner he heard the quiet murmurings of voices.
Eve, Loren and Cally were sheltering from the light rain inside the porch, and as he approached he saw his wife was talking to a man and woman, both of whom were wearing green Barbour jackets. Both also had their trousers tucked into high, green rubber boots, the man sporting a smart flat cap, the woman wearing a colourful blue-and-yellow scarf and carrying an umbrella under which they both sheltered.
‘Ah,’ the man said as he saw Gabe’s approach. ‘You’ll be Mr Caleigh, then.’ He smiled and offered a hand.
Gabe shook it and nodded at the woman. They looked to be a compatible couple in their matching coats, both tall, but the man taller than the woman (and taller than Gabe), their features similar: strong nose, high cheekbones, chin a little weak, trim figures. Their eyes were different, though, his a washed-out blue, hers like a hawk’s, sharp and staring, grey in colour. He looked to be in his early forties, she possibly younger, and his smile seemed more genuine than hers: Gabe thought there was reserve in her thin-lipped acknowledgement of him, and her gaze was too intense, as if he were a trespasser, there to steal the church silverware.
‘Gabe,’ said Eve almost nervously, ‘this is the vicar of St Mark’s, and his wife.’
‘Andrew Trevellick,’ the man said, still smiling. ‘The Reverend Andrew Trevellick, actually, but please call me Andrew.’
Gabe was surprised that the vicar wore a shirt and knitted tie rather than a white collar.
‘Bad weather, huh?’ Gabe didn’t know what else to say. Besides, the Brits usually referred to the weather after they’d been introduced, didn’t they? He’d at least learned something in his sixteen years over here.
‘Dreadful, dreadful,’ returned the vicar. ‘The rain doesn’t seem to want to stop, does it? My wife’s name is Celia, by the way.’ They stood close together under the umbrella, as though joined at the hips.
Again, Gabe nodded his head at her, feeling under scrutiny.
‘And your wife, Eve,’ the vicar went on, ‘tells me you’ve moved into Crickley Hall.’
‘Just for a short spell.’ Gabe noticed that the false smile on the vicar’s wife had quickly dissolved.
‘Splendid,’ said Trevellick. ‘I hope the place isn’t too draughty for you.’ Although the vicar had a West Country name, there was nothing parochial about this accent. He was pure Home Counties.
‘We’ll get by,’ Gabe said, and he looked at Eve as though to reassure her. Cally hung on to Eve’s sleeve and scuffed the sole of her boot against the porch step, restless and probably bored. Loren paid quiet attention to the adults as she always did.
‘Celia and I are so pleased you decided to visit our little church so soon,’ said Trevellick.
‘It’s lovely,’ Eve acknowledged. ‘Really lovely.’
Yes, even on a day like today. You’ll find it very peaceful inside. Of course, I hope you’ll all attend our Sunday service while you’re here in Hollow Bay.’
‘We intend to,’ Eve responded. ‘At least, my daughters and I will. I’m not sure about Gabe . . .’
‘Not a religious man, Mr Caleigh? Well, that’s fine; you’re still welcome to our services, or to visit on your own at any time. I rarely lock the church door during the day even though the rectory is further down the hill, nearer to the village. With two young daughters I’m sure you need some quiet time now and again.’
They all chuckled politely, and then Gabe said: ‘I was looking around the grounds . . .’ He waved an arm loosely as if to indicate where he had just come from.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Trevellick, a self-satisfied smile on his face. ‘Walking among the dead, eh? Are you interested in that kind of thing?’
‘Andrew.’ Celia Trevellick tugged at her husband’s arm indignantly. ‘What a macabre thing to say.’
‘Oh no, dear. Some of the messages on the more ancient headstones can be quite fascinating. One or two are highly amusing, and others a trifle sinister.’
‘I saw the row of children’s graves at the back,’ said Gabe bluntly, and the vicar’s jocularity swiftly vanished.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘those poor children, all those years ago. They were taken from us during the war, as you will have seen by the date on their headstones. I believe the shock of the flood and the losses it caused has been passed down from generation to generation in Hollow Bay. Sixty-eight people died in one night, you know, eleven of them just children.’
That was it. That was what had been bothering Gabe when he’d viewed the graves. ‘But there’s only nine markers back there and there’s eleven names mentioned on the board inside the church.’ As an engineer Gabe’s working life was detail – it was an essential requirement of his profession – and now he wondered how he’d missed it before. Nine kids buried, but eleven names on the remembrance board. Two kids missing.
The vicar spoke with great sadness in his voice. ‘Unfortunately, the bodies of two of the children were never recovered. It seems the sea claimed them for its own.’
‘They were swept out when the village was flooded?’ Gabe, perhaps morbidly, was interested to know.
‘Apparently, Mr Caleigh.’ It was the vicar’s wife, Celia, who answered. ‘The children were evacuees, you see, sent down from London to escape the Blitz. All of them had been evacuated to Crickley Hall. That was where most of them drowned.’
11: IMAGINATION
‘I knew I didn’t like this place.’
Eve folded her arms and leaned back against a kitchen worktop while she waited for the plastic kettle to boil. They both needed hot coffee after their uphill trek from the harbour village. The girls were upstairs arranging their new bedroom to their liking, prized possessions they had brought with them to Devon finding suitable places to rest.
The Secret of Crickley Hall Page 7