The Secret of Crickley Hall

by James Herbert

  ‘Hey, wait a sec,’ Gabe suddenly said. ‘There is another person who I’m sure will have a key, maybe the whole set.’

  ‘Who might that be, Mr Caleigh?’ The policeman was interested.

  ‘Percy Judd. He’s Crickley Hall’s gardener and handyman.’

  ‘Gabe!’ Eve was shocked.

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s unlikely.’ Gabe addressed the constable: ‘Look, he’s in his eighties and I don’t think he’s the kinda guy who’d wander around without any clothes on.’

  ‘Do you have an address for this Mr Judd?’

  ‘No. He lives further up the hill, I think, somewhere off the road. I’m sure anyone down in the village would know – it’s a pretty tight community. Or try the local vicar; Percy works around the church.’

  ‘I’ll follow it up.’

  ‘You’d be wasting your time,’ commented Eve. ‘I’m certain he’d never do anything like that.’

  ‘You know him well, Mrs Caleigh?’

  ‘No, not well. But he’s a harmless old man. A nice man. It’s just not possible.’

  ‘As I said, I’ll follow it up. Can you think of anyone else who might have got inside the house in your absence?’

  Gabe and Eve shook their heads.

  ‘Nobody,’ affirmed Gabe. ‘Have you searched the place?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve done that, sir. We found the house empty.’

  ‘You looked everywhere?’ Gabe was worrying about the safety of his own family.

  ‘Top to bottom. Basement too. By the way, have you had any flooding in the house recently?’

  Gabe immediately thought of the pools of water he’d found around the hall and stairs on their first night at Crickley Hall. But he wouldn’t call that flooding.

  ‘We’ve had some leaks,’ he replied, ‘but nothing serious.’

  The policeman looked puzzled. ‘Well, we found no evidence of flooding actually, but the boy and girl told us the whole ground floor was covered in water.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’ Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. ‘This is all crazy. Is the house flooded now?’ He peered past the policeman into the hall and his own question was answered.

  Nevertheless, PC Kenrick replied, ‘No, sir. Like I said, we didn’t find a drop of water anywhere it shouldn’t be, not even in the basement where the well is located.’

  ‘Did you find anything when you searched?’ asked Eve.

  ‘No. All we did discover that was peculiar was a dead rat inside a plastic bag in the middle of the hall. But the kids owned up to that. Some kind of practical joke, apparently.’

  Gabe remembered the dead wood pigeon on the doorstep; he’d mentioned it to Eve.

  Eve spoke: ‘One of these children wasn’t called Seraphina, was she?’ Loren had told her mother the unusual name of the bully she’d punched.

  PC Kenrick thought before he answered. They had to be informed sooner or later. ‘Er, yes, Mrs Caleigh. Seraphina Blaney. The youth is her older brother, Quentin. Their mother is Patricia Blaney; she was the one who called us after her kids came home in a terrible state. They told her they’d seen a naked man in Crickley Hall. They also said the place was flooded. And oh yes, there was something nasty in the cellar.’

  ‘I’m losing this,’ said Gabe.

  ‘What did they mean by something nasty?’ Eve had gripped her husband’s arm. Cally was no longer hiding but had squeezed between her mother and father to gaze up at the blue-uniformed stranger.

  ‘Well . . . they couldn’t describe it, actually. They said that something – a figure, an animal, we don’t know yet – came out of the dark; the kids were too upset to get much sense from them. Anyway, it scared them enough to make them leave the cellar.’

  ‘They were in the cellar?’ asked Gabe, still trying to take it all in.

  ‘Not down in the cellar; they were hiding behind the cellar door, they told us. Whatever it was – and my sergeant thinks it’s only their imagination running wild – it scared them so much it drove them from their hiding place.’

  ‘But what were they hiding from?’ Eve was as mystified as her husband.

  ‘Someone they heard upstairs. This was the naked man.’

  ‘With a cane,’ said Gabe.

  ‘Holding a stick,’ replied the constable.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘They ran. They left Crickley Hall and scooted back home. According to their mother, both were crying hysterically, and she was so alarmed she rang us. What she did get out of them was that a naked man was involved. Because of that we considered it a significant incident.’

  ‘Significant?’

  ‘Not a major one, but an incident that required immediate investigation. We pay special attention where children are concerned. Unfortunately, the boy and girl were difficult to interview because they were both still in shock.’

  ‘Could they identify the person they saw?’ asked Eve.

  ‘Yeah,’ muttered Gabe. ‘Maybe it was a local . . .’

  ‘I wish it were that simple. You see, the kids said it wasn’t really a man at all.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Gabe was frowning again, his blue eyes fixed on the policeman.

  PC Kenrick looked slightly embarrassed. ‘They said he wasn’t clear. He appeared to, uh, to fade in and out. Of course, we didn’t search the house on that basis – we were looking for a man who had deliberately exposed himself to children. But according to them, what they saw on the stairway wasn’t real. They claimed it was a ghost.’

  38: THE SWING

  Eve finished washing Cally’s lunch plate (Eve hadn’t felt like eating) and laid it on the draining board where it could dry itself. As she pulled off the yellow Marigolds she looked out of the window with blank eyes, observing the narrow river that swept under the bridge and past the brief expanse of lawn with its oak tree near its centre. There was no breeze today to stir the swing that hung from a stout limb of the oak, but her thoughts were introspective, her gaze inwards, so that she did not notice.

  Gabe had gone off to Ilfracombe shortly after the policeman had left and she had not felt comfortable alone in the house with just Cally for company. At that moment, her youngest daughter was in the grand hall, playing with her dolls on the stairs. Eve could hear her small voice as Cally talked to, and for, her eternally smiling, glazy-eyed ‘friends’ and the sound, distant though it was, was somehow reassuring. The word ‘ghost’ meant nothing much to Cally because she had only seen the cartoon kind, the Caspers and the rather stupid phantoms Scooby-Doo had to deal with on a regular basis. She was too young to wonder how and why dead people might haunt the living; she merely accepted it as an actuality of no particular importance.

  How wonderful to be so undemanding, thought Eve, not to be in the least disturbed by phenomena that mystified and often terrified older people. Cally seemed to have even forgotten about the ‘black’ man she had seen in the corner of her bedroom the other night.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Eve snapped back to the moment. She turned from the window to see Cally in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Yes, baby?’

  ‘Can I go outside and play? The sun is shining.’

  ‘It’s still very damp out there; the grass is wet.’ And the unfenced river was too near, Eve warned herself.

  ‘Please, Mummy. Can I go on the swing, will you push me?’ Cally tucked one ankle behind the other and gripped her hands together.

  Eve felt they both needed fresh air and after all that had happened that morning, Cally deserved some special attention. ‘All right, let me get a tea towel to wipe the swing’s seat. Just ten minutes, okay? Then we’re going to do some reading together.’

  ‘Can I choose the book?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I want you to try something a little bit harder today.’

  Cally pulled a face, but it was gone in an instant.

  ‘You’ll need your wellies,’ Eve instructed her. ‘I’ll get your coat; it’s still chilly out there.’

  ‘Okay, Mummy.�
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  Cally ran to the hall rack where coats and hats were hung, walking boots on the floor beneath them; she pulled out a pair of Wellingtons that were bright green and dotted with white spots.

  In a couple of minutes they were ready to go outside.

  Eve contemplated the frothy river. The water was a murky brown, as if the riverbank further upstream was gradually being eaten away. Even though it hadn’t rained that day, the river still looked swollen and enraged. If it should spill over its banks, would it flood Crickley Hall again as it had all those years ago? The two children, the trespassers, had told the police that the hall was flooded, but there had been no sign of it later, not even any puddles or wet patches. Did the house itself trigger such images, did its thick walls remember how the house was once deluged by floodwater? Was it possible for stone and mortar to store memories? It seemed impossible, yet so many strange things had happened since the family’s arrival. Eve had always been unsure of her own feelings regarding the paranormal, whether or not events that defied natural comprehension could really occur. Now she was even more uncertain. If her lost son could contact her using telepathy, then why not other phenomena? Accept one instance, accept them all? Her beliefs were being stretched to their limits.

  It was good to feel the sun on her back, even though it was a weak warmth, the sun itself watery, as if dampened by the incessant rain of the past week. Behind her, Cally swung back and forth on the now-dried swing, her tiny hands grasped round the rusted chain links, her voice exuberant with the rush of it. Eve had started her off, pulling the swing seat with Cally on it as far back as possible, then letting it go with a firm push, pushing again on its return, using just the right pressure to generate a momentum. Her daughter leaned back, kicking out her legs to keep the rhythm going. It was nice for Eve to hear Cally’s hoots and chuckles as the swing reached its zenith, then began its journey back.

  ‘Push harder, Mummy!’ came the cry, but Eve used only enough force to keep the swing going. Satisfied that Cally could keep up the momentum herself, Eve stepped back, smiling at her daughter’s squeals of delight. Then, diverted by her own thoughts, Eve turned away and strolled towards the river.

  Her gaze wandered beyond the tumbling waters and up at the high gorge wall, which was lush with vegetation and full of trees that were either deep green in colour or just turning a golden brown. Crickley Hall was splendidly positioned but, because of its structural plainness – its ugliness, would be more apt – it failed to blend in with the natural surroundings. Which was a shame, a waste. Eve drew in a deep breath, relishing the scented air, refreshing both mind and body, cleansing her thoughts so that for a moment, a moment only, she felt uplifted. She almost felt hopeful once again.

  Eve caught something moving in the periphery of her vision. Looking downstream, she saw a large grey heron had landed on a glistening stone embedded in the bank at the water’s edge and now its long pointed bill was poised above the flow. It was a long-legged cumbersome-looking bird that might have waded out a little way had the river not been so fierce; all it could do was wait until a fish presented itself close to the bank. It was fascinating to watch, for there was a tension in the air as the bird’s S-shaped neck hovered snakelike over the water, its beak almost touching the roiling surface, ready to strike. The heron’s neck twitched and then—

  And then, a high-pitched scream had Eve whirling round to see what had frightened Cally.

  Again, just in the periphery of her vision, Eve glimpsed movement; or thought she glimpsed movement, for there was nothing . . . only a white shadow . . . that might not have been there at all. Cally continued to scream and Eve saw her daughter high in the air, the swing’s chains almost parallel to the ground, the swing arcing back again, the pendulum movement fast, too fast, Cally gripping the chains hard, her cries becoming one long screech.

  Eve dashed forward as the swing reached its highest point on the other side of the oak’s bough. Cally’s back was to Eve, her hair whipped up behind her, her short legs kicking at empty air as if to control her flight. Now the swing began its return journey and Eve waited, her arms outstretched, ready to catch it and bring its wild oscillation to a halt. But it came at her with a force so much harder than she expected.

  Her arms were easily pushed back by the heavy wooden seat, which hit her beneath the chin, sending her reeling backwards. Her legs gave way and she fell to the ground, the swing with Cally on it rising above her. Eve caught sight of her daughter’s white frightened face. The swing began its return journey and Eve, trying to regain her feet, had to duck low to avoid being hit again. So high did it go that Cally almost slipped backwards off the seat, only her tight grip on the chains preventing her from doing so.

  It was as if the swing were being pushed by strong invisible hands, sending it too high and too fast.

  Eve straightened and readied herself this time, backing away from the swing’s flight path, raising her arms, her fingers slightly curled to catch the seat as it flew back at her. It smacked into the palms of her hands, Cally screeching all the while, her pale face sodden with tears, but Eve did not try to hold on to it; she merely slowed its pace.

  The next time it came her way she applied the same technique, slowing the swing’s ascent so that it lost momentum. On the next swing back she managed to slip her arm round Cally’s waist, her other hand grabbing one of the chains. It worked. The swing angled, the chain links almost crossing, but it was blocked by Eve’s body. She teetered there for a moment, then dragged Cally off the seat, both of them falling backwards onto the soft wet grass.

  Eve lay there, momentarily winded, and Cally sprawled over her.

  ‘Why did you push me so hard, Mummy?’ Cally wailed as Eve fought for breath. Through her tears, her daughter repeated the question.

  ‘But . . . but I didn’t push you,’ Eve managed to say as she struggled to sit upright so that Cally was in her lap. ‘I stopped the swing.’

  ‘No, before. You pushed me before. I went too high, Mummy. I was frightened.’

  Eve drew her daughter close and looked at the dangling swing that now swayed gently as if all the life had gone from it.

  39: THE REPORTER

  Startled, Eve looked across the kitchen to the window.

  The man outside who had tapped on the window smiled and pressed a small card against the glass.

  ‘Andy Pierson,’ Eve heard him say, his voice distant. ‘North Devon Dispatch. Can I have a word?’

  She lifted Cally from her lap, laying the colourful book on the table.

  ‘Who’s the man, Mummy?’ Cally demanded.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ For Cally’s sake she didn’t want to say she didn’t know. ‘You carry on reading or looking at the pictures while I find out what he wants.’

  As Cally went back to the book, Eve leaned over the sink to read the card this Andy Pierson was holding flat against the glass. It bore out the man’s claim: NORTH DEVON DISPATCH it said with the name ‘Andrew Pierson’ below in smaller type.

  ‘If I could just have a word with you,’ the man called out. ‘It’s Mrs. Caleigh, isn’t it? Mrs Eve Caleigh?’

  Eve was still feeling a little shaky from the incident with the swing earlier and she definitely didn’t feel like talking to a journalist right now, whatever it was about. She was convinced that some malign invisible force had pushed Cally on the swing and the thought frightened her. She was no longer sure she wanted to stay at Crickley Hall.

  ‘Mrs Caleigh?’ The reporter still held his press card against the window.

  ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ Eve asked, her voice loud enough for him to hear outside.

  ‘Can I come round to the door, Mrs Caleigh?’ At last he slipped the card into the breast pocket of his grey suit.

  Eve didn’t know what to do. Why was the reporter here? Could it have anything to do with what happened at Crickley Hall early that morning? Surely not. How would he have known about it? Then Eve remembered her time mixing with feature write
rs and journos when her career had been flourishing. A crime reporter had once told her that he gathered news by ringing round various London police stations – all crime journalists did the same – to find out if anything particularly noteworthy was going on that day or night. Duty officers were always good sources of information, especially if there was a ‘drink’ in it for them; sometimes the officer rang the journalist first if the crime was exciting enough. Eve wondered exactly what this North Devon Dispatch reporter had been told by the local police.

  She pointed at the kitchen’s outer door and he grinned and nodded his head. He quickly disappeared round the corner of the house to present himself at the door. Eve noticed another man, who must have been standing out of sight, following him, camera hanging from his neck. Oh no, she thought, this was going too far. She didn’t want the children’s ridiculous story appearing in the local rag. (Yes, but was it ridiculous? a sly interior voice asked. Was it any more ridiculous than the other strange occurrences at Crickley Hall?)

  When she opened the door, the photographer had caught up with his companion and was pointing his lens straight at her. He reeled off three shots before she even had time to protest.

  Too late, she put up her hand and said, ‘Please don’t do that.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Caleigh, we’ll choose a good one,’ the journalist assured her silkily. ‘Now it is Mrs Caleigh, isn’t it? I’ve got that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eve was too flustered to say anything else.

  ‘And is Mr Caleigh about? It’d be useful to talk to him as well.’

  ‘My husband’s at work.’

  ‘No matter. You’ll do fine.’

  ‘We couldn’t take a picture of you on the front doorstep, could we?’ put in the photographer. ‘We could get in most of the house that way.’

  ‘In a minute, Doug.’ Pierson waved an arm over the photographer’s camera as if to ward it off. ‘Give Mrs Caleigh a chance to catch her breath. ‘D’you mind if I call you Eve?’