The Secret of Crickley Hall

by James Herbert

  ‘Gov’mint were right, en’ all. Krauts sent over them doodlebugs in ’44 – “buzz bombs” some people called ’em, but V-1s was their proper name – an’ they created havoc in London an’ along the Kent flypath. But our eleven evacuees came afore that happened, much good it did ’em in the long run.

  ‘There were six boys an’ five girls, only two of them related: Gerald and Brenda Prosser were brother and sister. The eldest boy were twelve years old, though he were big for his age an’ looked older too. His name were Maurice Stafford, a gawky unlikable lad, an’ the eldest girl, eleven years old, were Susan Trainer. She played mother to ’em all, but especially to Stefan Rosenbaum, who were only five, the youngest of the lot. He were from Poland and didn’t understand much English.

  ‘Poor little mites, they was,’ said Percy. ‘All they come with was the clothes on their backs, cardboard suitcases with a change of clothes, I suppose, an’ their gas-mask boxes hangin’ roun’ their necks. They looked happy enough when they arrived, chatterin’ an’ excited as they got off the bus that’d brought ’em from the station. Didn’t last long though, that happiness.’

  Eve listened intently as the story went on . . .

  Percy told her that the children’s guardians and teachers, who were also from London and new to the area themselves, were brother and sister, Augustus and Magda Cribben.

  He was in his early forties, a cold hard man, a religious zealot and disciplinarian, who ruled the children with a rod of iron. His sister, a plain, stone-faced woman of thirty-one – ‘Looked older,’ remarked Percy, ‘looked much older than her years’ – was equally harsh with the children.

  Augustus Cribben, whose middle name was Theophilus, had been deputy headmaster of a London school for boys that had been closed because most of its pupils had been evacuated to other parts of the country. Magda had been one of his teachers. Other than that, very little else was known about the couple and the only person in Hollow Bay that Cribben engaged with was the vicar of St Mark’s, the Reverend Horace Rossbridger, who admired the guardian for his dedication to the Lord and the firm control he had over the children in his charge.

  Percy, who as a lad was the gardener-cum-handyman to Crickley Hall, even then taking care of the house and grounds whether it was occupied or not, had tried to befriend the children when his daily duties took him inside the house, but Cribben had soon forbidden any fraternization between Percy and the children lest they be distracted from their own duties. That hadn’t prevented Percy from observing, though.

  Within a matter of days the children had changed from happy, vociferous youngsters into wary and quiet creatures, afraid to do anything that might incur Cribben’s or Magda’s wrath. They had come to live in a regime so strict that it seemed to have broken their spirit. Punishment for anything Cribben deemed misbehaviour was severe, Percy learned. Their daily diet was porridge and a cup of water for breakfast, mincemeat, boiled potatoes and cabbage for lunch, cheese and an apple for their supper, all of which might have been fine, if limited, but Percy had seen for himself the meagre portions each child received. While they were not conspicuously undernourished, they soon lost any ounce of fat they might have had before, and their robustness was drained from them.

  Inside the house they had to go about in bare or stockinged feet despite the damp coldness that always clung to the rooms no matter what the season. As well as saving on shoe leather, this also avoided ‘excessive’ noise. Augustus Cribben apparently suffered mightily from migraine headaches.

  Nor were the evacuees allowed to play with toys that were sent by the various charitable organizations that regularly supplied orphanages and schools in poorer areas with clothes and books as well as playthings. Toys were put away in the attic storeroom next to the children’s dormitory, almost as if their proximity was meant to torment – or test – the boys and girls.

  ‘We found them,’ Eve informed Percy, glancing at the old-fashioned spinning top that sat between them near the edge of the kitchen table. ‘Gabe discovered it in the attic. As you said – hidden away in the storeroom next to the dormitory. My God, they’ve been there all those years.’

  Percy studied the colourful toy, and there was sorrow in his gaze. A moment or two passed before he said, ‘S’been no proper family here since to take any interest. No kiddies who might’ve had fun with things like that.’ He sighed, and to Eve he seemed to shrink a little. The old man went on with his story.

  ‘I remember seein’ all the evacuees together once, marchin’ down to St Mark’s for Sunday service. September, it were, and the weather had turned cold. They was in pairs, holdin’ hands like, the little ’uns trottin’ along to keep up, girls in brown berets, the boys wearin’ overcoats either too small or too large, none fittin’ properly. All of ’em had gas masks hangin’ across their chests, even though there were little chance of gas bombs in Hollow Bay. I still recall how quiet they was, not like ordinary kids who’d be laughin’ an’ chattin’, some of ’em skippin’ mebbe. Like they was when they first arrived. No, they was all silent as the grave, sort of . . . sort of . . .’ He searched for the right word. ‘. . . cowed, if yer know my meanin’. Like they was afraid to enjoy themselves.’

  Percy shook his head sadly at the memory. ‘Cribben were up front, leadin’ ’em, Magda fetchin’ up the rear, watchin’ out for any mischief the kids might get up to along the way. Maurice Stafford marched with her at the back, a tall boy, like I say, who looked older than he were. For some reason he was treated different from the others by the Cribbens. A tattle-tell, he were, I found out later. Told on the other kids if they did anythin’ wrong. A big kid all right, but skinny, awkward-lookin’. I remember him grinnin’ at me as he passed by, cocky with it, a great black gap in his grin where a tooth should’ve been. He weren’t liked by the other kiddies an’ there were a reason for that. Teacher’s pet, he were. An’ sly, very sly. A sneak. I found out about that when Nancy came to teach at Crickley Hall.’

  He came to a stop again and Eve wondered if he were picturing this Nancy in his mind. He seemed far away, lost to another time.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Eve gently prompted and the old gardener collected himself, clearing his throat, stiffening his shoulders.

  ‘Nancy – Linnet were her surname, Linnet like the little bird – Nancy were nineteen years of age. Pretty thing, she were, delicate like, but strong in herself, if yer knows my meanin’ . . .’

  Like the eleven evacuees at Crickley Hall, Nancy Linnet was also an orphan who had been raised in an institutional home in the suburbs of London. She had left the home at the age of sixteen to dedicate her life to teaching and aspiring to educate underprivileged children, especially those who were orphans like herself. She had jumped at the opportunity to teach the orphans at Hollow Bay.

  ‘Nancy had ringlets that shone like bright copper down to her shoulders,’ Percy told Eve, ‘an’ merry hazel eyes, an’ she had freckles on her cheeks that made her look like a twelve-year-old. Well, we sort of took a shine to one another, me an’ Nancy. Oh, I knew she were too good fer me an’ I used to think the only reason I stood a chance with her were ’cause she had a withered arm. That didn’t spoil her beauty fer me, not one little bit, but other lads in them days . . . Well, there were a different attitude towards disfigurement then, only by the time the war were over an’ all them pilots an’ sailors an’ soldiers come back with burnt-off faces an’ missin’ limbs, people started to get used to such things. Not entirely, though – some people nowadays still can’t abide other people’s afflictions, but I s’pose there’s no changin’ that.’

  He gave a mournful shake of his head. Anyway, we struck up a friendship – a courtship year might say – an’ through her I got to know more about what was goin’ on in Crickley Hall, things I hadn’t seen for myself . . .’

  The children’s routine was stringent as it was inflexible. They rose at six every morning, weekends included, and made their own beds before washing and dressing; they had breakfast, then
attended assembly in the hall where Cribben led them in prayer; by eight o’clock they began lessons in the large drawing room (it was also their dining room), which had been furnished with desks that had fold-up benches attached, a teacher’s table with drawers, a coloured tin globe of the world that stood on a sideboard, and a blackboard and easel. Their lunch was at twelve o’clock and only lasted twenty minutes, after which they were each given chores to do around the house: sweeping, dusting and polishing (scrubbing floors on Saturdays), cleaning out the fire grate and relaying the fire in the sitting room and for the Cribbens alone (despite the constant chill that hugged the house because of the underground river it was built over, the boiler was never used to heat the big iron radiators). Lessons resumed at two and finished at six. They were free to read books in the dormitory until seven (no games were allowed), when they had supper. Bathtime after supper, each of the children bathing on alternate evenings, more assembly prayers in their nightclothes, then bed, lights out by 8 p.m.

  Nancy herself lodged in the harbour village, and she arrived at Crickley Hall promptly at 7.45 a.m. every day for lessons, leaving at six each evening.

  ‘It were the punishment dealt out to the kiddies that upset Nancy so much, the beatin’s Cribben gave ’em, sometimes with a leather belt but more often with a stick. Nancy was a quiet little thing, but it distressed her the way the orphans was treated. She remonstrated with Cribben more ’n once, but she were frightened to go too far in case she got sacked – couldn’t bear to leave the children, she couldn’t, in case they was treated worse when she were gone. One time she did go see the vicar, old Horace Rossbridger, to complain about the Cribbens, but he were too much an admirer of Augustus Cribben to listen to her. Told Nancy to go back to work an’ mind her business. But I think Nancy resolved to do more about it, but I don’t know what.’

  Eve regarded Percy. ‘What do you mean? Surely—’

  He waved a hand at her as if in despair. ‘I was conscripted into the army roun’ that time. I’d turned eighteen an’ the Forces needed every man and lad they could get.’

  (Eve quickly did the maths. My God! Percy was eighty-one!)

  ‘We kep’ in touch by letter, Nancy an’ me, but her letters stopped comin’. Las’ one I got from her said she’d made up her mind an’ were goin’ to the authorities to tell ’em what were goin’ on at Crickley Hall. I carried on writin’ to her, but nothin’ ever came back after that. So I got in touch with her landlady at the lodgings an’ she wrote back tellin’ me Nancy had quit her job and gone away. Magda Cribben turned up one day at the lodgings and informed the landlady that Nancy was returnin’ to London that very afternoon an’ needed the rest of her things. Magda didn’t explain any more, jus’ collected Nancy’s few clothes and left with ’em. Nobody heard from Nancy agin’. She were hardly known down in the village anyway and it were wartime – people comin’ an’ goin’ all the time. Nobody bothered to ask questions.’

  ‘But didn’t you find Nancy after the war?’ asked Eve, touched by Percy and Nancy’s romance.

  ‘Oh, I tried, Missus Caleigh, believe me, I tried, but I weren’t demobbed ’til late ’46 an’ by then . . . well, by then the trail’d gone cold. People went missin’ durin’ war an’ more went missin’ after. It was all the confusion, y’see, the country was a mess, gov’mint an’ people tryin’ to get back to normal. The authorities had no record of Nancy after ’43 an’ there were too much goin’ on for them to care much. Said she probably returned to London and were mebbe killed in the bombing – it was them doodlebugs, them flying bombs that were doing the damage in ’44. Bigger ones after that – V-2s they called ’em . . .’

  Percy Judd had searched for but never found Nancy Linnet. After the flood in October 1943, Crickley Hall remained empty and almost derelict for several years. He was kept on as gardener and handyman by the managing agents who looked after the property for the owners, the direct descendants of Charles Crickley, who had moved to Canada at the beginning of the Second World War and had lost interest in the house (which was soon requisitioned by the government for official wartime use). Percy confessed to Eve that he stayed with the place in the foolish hope that Nancy might some day return, or at least make contact with him there. But it was not to be: it was as if his sweetheart had disappeared off the face of the earth itself.

  Eventually the house was restored to its former condition – percy could not force himself to say it was restored to its former glory, because he had never found anything remotely glorious about the place – by successive owners, the last of whom were the Templetons. But rumours about the Hall had spread among the villagers. Rumours that the children had been deliberately trapped in Crickley Hall’s cellar on the night of the flood. Rumours that had never entirely gone away.

  ‘Only nine bodies was found inside the house, all of ’em in the cellar,’ said Percy, a mistiness in his eyes now. ‘It were reckoned the other two’d been washed into the well by the floodwater an’ the underground river had carried them out to the bay. Maurice Stafford and the little Polish boy, Stefan, that were. Their bodies were never recovered. The question at the time were why was the children down there when Cribben coulda taken ’em up to the top of the house, or even the landing, which was high enough.

  ‘Augustus Cribben’s body were found dead in the big hall, his neck an’ back broken, his body cut to pieces when the floodwaters smashed through the window over the stairs. They said he were discovered naked.’

  Eve frowned and suddenly felt colder.

  ‘Magda Cribben,’ Percy continued after a moment, ‘were found next mornin’, waitin’ alone on the platform of the railway station at Merrybridge. No one knew how she got there. She were only in her usual black dress and brogues – no coat an’ no hat – an’ she couldn’t answer no questions, couldn’t speak at all. Never spoke another word.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Eve. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She were put in what they used to call an asylum.’

  ‘She was mad?’

  ‘Mad an’ dumb. Couldn’t or wouldn’t say a word. When she got too old they put her in a nursing home.’

  Percy drained his tea, which was cold by then. He placed the cup and saucer on the table and rose to his feet.

  ‘I best be goin’, missus. That’s all I can tell you ’bout the evacuees who came to Crickley Hall, poor souls.’

  ‘But there must have been an investigation of some kind into why the children were in the cellar. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘If there were, the outcome were kept quiet. Yer have to remember there were a war goin’ on. People had enough to worry about. An’ parents wouldna let their kiddies be evacuated at all any more if they thought bad things was goin’ to happen to ’em. No, I think the gov’mint in them days didn’t want to cause no fuss, morale of the country an’ all that. An’ there were no proper evidence agin’ Augustus Cribben anyway. Even the vicar, old Rossbridger, still spoke highly of the man. The only person left who knew what’d been goin’ on at Crickley Hall was Magda Cribben an’ she weren’t sayin’. But y’know, I think Rossbridger were in league with the authorities who wanted things hushed up, ’cause Cribben were buried without ceremony an’ his grave were right at the back of the graveyard.’

  Percy managed a faint smile for Eve, but the melancholy remained in his faded eyes.

  ‘I’ll be gettin’ on with the garden. I’ve given yer enough to think on.’

  Eve stood too. ‘Thank you, Percy,’ was all she could think of to say; her head was reeling by now.

  Donning his cap and adjusting it on his head, he walked to the door and turned back to her before opening it.

  ‘Are things all right fer yer here, Missus Caleigh?’ he asked.

  Eve wondered what she could tell him, what he would believe. ‘Yes, Percy. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘You’d let me know . . .?’ He did not complete the sentence.

  Know what? That Crickley Hall was haunted? That the spirits of the
children who had died here were somehow making her aware of their presence? That there might possibly be a connection between them and her own missing son? It was too soon to tell. Besides, she could scarcely believe it herself.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she repeated. And her mind was suddenly made up: she knew what she should do.

  25: BULLY

  Now it was not in Loren Caleigh’s nature to hit anybody; in fact, never in her life had she raised hand or fist in anger, let alone physically struck someone. She abhorred violence in any form and she hated confrontation almost as much. She didn’t like it when Dad and little Cam used to play-wrestle on the carpet, Dad allowing her tiny brother to think he’d pinned him down before Dad reared up and held him high over his head until Cam, who loved it when that happened, ‘squealed’ for mercy, both of them ending up giggling and rolling around the floor again. It always made Mummy laugh too (Mummy laughed a lot in those days), but Loren herself had only smiled, pretending to enjoy the game.

  Then one day, Loren had returned home from school and burst into tears. It turned out that a particularly nasty girl in a class a year above Loren’s had been picking on her for several weeks, for no other reason, it seemed, than Loren had an American father, someone who ‘talked funny’. (Gabe and Eve suspected there were probably other reasons, such as their daughter’s own shyness and her quiet personality.) Eve had wanted to complain to the school’s headmistress, but Loren had begged her not to. ‘It will only make matters worse,’ she had wailed. So Dad, much to Mummy’s protests, had shown Loren what to do when you were picked on by a bully who was not only older but bigger too. This, of course, was if you’d been pushed to the limit and there was no other way to settle things.

  The trick was to get in the first blow. Once you knew there was only one way for the situation to go and it was bound to get physical, you had to strike first. But – ‘this is important, this is very important’ – aim for the bridge of the nose. Not the tip of the nose, nor any other place like the jaw, and never the chest (belly if you just wanted to wind them, but it was not advised). Just that spot at the bridge of the nose, ‘smack-down between the peepers’. That should do enough damage to finish it right there and then – ‘And if it doesn’t, get the hell out.’