The Secret of Crickley Hall

by James Herbert

  And then, many years later when she was in the bad place where they had locked her away and she thought she’d finally been forgotten, another man came to speak with her. But this one she knew well, even though he had changed, for he had been her willing ally once.

  He had been aware of everything – all that had taken place that last night and all that had gone on before: everything – but he, too, had plied her with questions, questions, questions, and she had played dumb, she had not broken her silence even for him, she’d not said a single word. She wasn’t going to be gulled into admitting anything! She was just a dumb old lady with no memories and who played no part in the present world.

  Curiously he had looked satisfied when he left her all alone again (which was how she liked it – no temptations to speak then). He had never returned, though, and that was fine too. Her own company was good enough for her! Perhaps he didn’t know they’d moved her to this place, where she had the door open all day (she had closed it several times when she’d first arrived, but they had scolded her, so she didn’t do it any more. That was perfectly all right, though – they could spy on her as much as they liked, but they wouldn’t catch her out, she was too clever for them).

  ‘Back in 1943,’ Gabe said doggedly, aware that Magda was paying no heed, as if she were in a world of her own, ‘you and your brother were custodians of a bunch of evacuees sent down from London because of the war. Do you remember that? Just nod your head if you do, you don’t have to speak.’

  Now this man was interrogating her! Had he no respect for a frail old woman whose only pleasure was solitude? Why was he asking about the best-forgotten past? Hadn’t she suffered enough, didn’t she still have the nightmares? Surely she had paid the price for what had happened at Crickley Hall. None of it was her fault anyway – she’d left the house when she realized her brother had lost his mind. She couldn’t have helped those children – Augustus was too strong and he might have turned on her! She had run out into the storm, and then walked miles to get away from Crickley Hall and her brother’s madness. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t be blamed! At least, not for that night. Her grievous sin came before then, but she’d only committed it out of love for her Augustus, knowing he would have been in serious trouble with the authorities should they learn just how rigorous was his rule. The young teacher – what was her name? She knew it, she was sure, because her memory was razor sharp. Miss Linnet, that was it! Miss Nancy Linnet – the young teacher had to be stopped. Magda would not allow the betrayal! The girl had been soft with the children, pandering to them, treating them as if they were special. Well, they weren’t special, they were unruly and needed strict discipline, a hardy regime to mould them into proper young persons! Augustus had the right idea, he knew the value of chastisement, and Magda always carried out what was expected of her. She revered her older brother.

  The children learned respect, just as they learned their lessons, yet still they rebelled and still Augustus had to punish them. But finally, it all became too much for him: Augustus’s mind snapped. His rage was awful and his actions frightened even her. First the Jewish infant (how she and her brother hated the Jews! They were the real reason, with their worldwide conspiracies and profiteering, for the war in Europe) had been dealt with, then the children who had attempted to run away. But in the end, it was she and the boy who had fled, frightened by Augustus’s madness, not sure how far the insanity would drive him, afraid for their own lives.

  ‘Magda, how about I get a pen and some paper? Couldn’t you write down your answers? You used to be a teacher, so obviously you’re an educated woman.’

  Hah! Flattery now. As if she would betray her brother. They had told her a long time ago that Augustus had drowned within the walls of Crickley Hall, so if his soul were weighed down by sin – a sin caused by his own derangement – he had paid the price. Now his soul should be left in peace.

  They had also told her that the children had perished with him in the flood. How little these people knew! Perhaps they thought another shock would move her to speak, might unlock her mind and release her from the amnesia (the false amnesia!), but she had been too clever for them. She had not reacted at all; not one tear of grief had fallen from her eyes. She could tell her interrogators were suspicious about the deaths of the children, but they had no proof of what really happened that night. None at all. They didn’t even know the fate of the young teacher with the ugly withered arm. And they never would. Not even on her own deathbed would she tell them. ‘In dumb silence will I bury mine.’ The great bard again, put so aptly. No, the secret would die with her.

  ‘Y’see, Magda, weird things have been going on in Crickley Hall lately. My wife thinks the place is haunted. She figures there must be a reason for it. Now personally, I don’t go along with all this ghost, uh, stuff, but I have to admit I’ve been pretty shaken by some of the things myself.’

  What did he expect her to say if she chose to speak?

  ‘We can’t understand why the kids weren’t at the top of the house, you know, above flood level? What were they doing in the basement? The mystery is why were they down there in the first place? Common sense should’ve taken them to high ground, wouldn’t you agree?’

  No, she wouldn’t agree at all. The man wasn’t going to trick her even if he could read her mind.

  ‘My wife’s theory is that the kids were put down there as some kind of punishment. Maybe just to scare ’em. But your brother took it too far, he kept them there when the flood came. My wife, she figures that those children have somehow come back, as ghosts, I mean, and they won’t leave until the mystery’s solved. She wants to help them move on, but there’s no way of knowing how they were trapped. Although you were found miles away next morning, she thought you might’ve been there when those kids were shut away. But maybe you weren’t, maybe you’d already left before the flood hit. Seems likely, otherwise you’d have drowned with your brother. But either way, we’d like to know. At least it might stop my wife wondering, kinda let me off the hook.’

  Let him off the hook? What language was this young man speaking? Oh yes, the nurse had said he was from America. Magda decided she didn’t like Americans. Why had it taken them so long to join the war effort against the Germans? Which was a stupid and needless war anyway. She and Augustus liked the Germans. They were a fine race of people, strong and adamantine in their beliefs and pursuits. Not like the insidious Jews, the murderers of Christ. And not like the Americans with their impudence and slovenly speech. Not like this impertinent individual before her now.

  ‘Look, we know how badly those kids were treated. We found the Punishment Book, y’see, and it’s all written down, every detail of the punishments given for so-called misbehaviour – the canings, the whippings with a leather belt, making ’em go without food, the cold baths, standing still for hours in their underwear. Pretty harsh on a bunch of orphans, the eldest of ’em no more than twelve years. Sure, I know things were different in those days, but even so, you and your brother were at ad excessive, don’t you think? The authorities would’ve thought so too if they’d ever found out. What puzzles me is why you didn’t destroy the book – oh, and the split-ended cane we found with it – instead of just hiding it. Why was that, Magda?’

  Because Augustus would not allow her to! He said every transgression and its consequence had to be recorded as evidence of their exemplary guardianship. But, always the pragmatic one, she knew the powers that be would never approve of their methods for controlling disobedient boys and girls, so, with his grudging acquiescence, she had hidden the book and the thrashing cane away. Inspectors might arrive on any day of any week, so it was best that they find no handwritten testimony to the punishments. Both book and stick could easily be retrieved whenever they were required.

  ‘And for some reason there was a picture stashed away too. Of the kids and you and your brother.’

  And the trainee teacher, the silly girl who protested and threatened to betray them with exaggerated stori
es of how the children were treated! Well she had been dealt with and the photograph put away with the other items because the young girl’s image served as a constant reminder and Magda did not like to dwell on just how she had silenced Miss High-and-Mighty Linnet. But Magda was too proud of the photograph to get rid of it. It displayed Augustus and her in all their authority, a permanent tribute to their fine achievement and dedication. Before, they had been mere teachers with limited powers, but then the opportunity had come along to become tutors and custodians of eleven evacuee orphans for the duration at Crickley Hall, far from the war-torn city. She and Augustus had been chosen for the post from above all other applicants. No, she could never have destroyed that photograph. She swelled with pride just thinking of it. If only Augustus had not suffered the headaches, the excruciating pain that had him crushing his head between his own hands to suppress it. It was the headaches that slowly deranged his brilliant mind, leaving him with fits of uncontrollable anger. It was the agony of them that caused the insanity.

  ‘Okay, I’m done here. It was my wife’s idea to drop by anyway. I didn’t expect much, and that’s what I got. ’Cept for a slight reaction in your eyes. I caught it twice, just a flicker, even though you wouldn’t look at me. Once when I said my wife thought Crickley Hall was haunted, and then again when I mentioned the photograph. Both times it was just a stab of fear. Well, it looked like fear to me. It came and went fast, but it was there.

  ‘Maybe you’re trapped inside a world of unresolved guilt, living in a hell all your own. Who can say? If I’ve got it wrong, I apologize. Didn’t mean to bother you. So long, Magda, I hope you really don’t remember.’

  He was going! At last he was leaving the room. Curiously, she was tempted to break all her years of silence to him. She wanted to defend her righteous brother. And herself, of course. But silence had protected her for a long time now – a century, it seemed – and she was not out to break it for this brazen young man. In truth, she had remained quiet for so long that she wondered if her voice had atrophied along with her tired old body. Damn this stranger, and damn all those others, all those officials and medical people who had tired to make her communicate! There, this man had caused her to curse. But God would forgive her. He had forgiven her for everything else, even the killing of the teacher, because He understood the necessity. God was with her always.

  Besides, she hadn’t cursed aloud, had she? So it didn’t count.

  Gabe was more disgusted with himself than impatient with Magda Cribben. She may have been one hell of a bitch when she was young, but now she was just a shrivelled-up old lady who looked so frail a sharp sneeze might cause her whole body to disintegrate. In the photograph he’d found she appeared so formidable, with her colourless face and black, shadowed eyes and stiff posture. Now she was a relic of her former self, a pathetic hunched figure whose bone structure seemed to have shrunk beneath her flesh. Yet, oddly, she did not have an elderly person’s vulnerability; there was still something scary in her unblinking gaze. Had he really seen a flicker of fear in her eyes, though, or were both times only in his own imagination?

  At the door he glanced round for one last look at her: she remained staring at the blank wall.

  Well, at least he’d kept his promise to Eve, he thought to himself as he strode out into the corridor.

  He had only taken a few paces when the partially open door he and the nurse had passed by earlier swung wider. A thin, brown-spotted arm reached out to him.

  ‘Mister,’ a low, raspy voice whispered.

  Gabe stopped and saw the same wrinkled face that had peered out at him before; now there was more of it to see. The woman with grey straggly hair clutched a worn pink dressing gown closed tight against her flat chest and he could see the hem of a nightdress hanging low round her skinny ankles and slippered feet.

  He drew close and she narrowed the gap in the door again as if fearing he might attack her.

  ‘D’you need something?’ Gabe asked. ‘Can I get a nurse for you?’

  ‘No, no, I jus’ wants to speak to yer.’ She had an accent almost as broad as Percy’s. ‘Yer’ve been to see her ladyship, haven’t yer?’ The elderly resident didn’t wait for a reply. ‘No one ever comes to see her. Got no relatives, no friends either. Give yer the silent treatment, did she?’ She gave a sharp cackle.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gabe. ‘She never spoke a word.’

  ‘Likes to pretend she can’t speak, that one does, likes to play dumb. But I’ve heard in the middle of the night when everyone’s s’posed to be sleeping. Walls’re thin d’you see, an’ I don’t sleep much nowadays. I listen an’ I hear Magda Cribben speakin’ plain as day. She has nightmares and she moans somethin’ awful an’ talks to herself. Not loud though, not so the night nurse might come down to her. I can hear all right though. Puts my ear against the wall. Thinks they’re comin’ to get her, see?’

  ‘Who? The police?’ It was a fair assumption if Magda had played some part in the children’s deaths. Guilt might still be hounding her.

  The woman became tetchy, almost cross. ‘No, no, not the police!’ Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper again. ‘It’s the kiddies she’s scared of. She thinks they’re comin’ back to get her for what she done to ’em. She cries out she’s sorry, she shouldn’t have lef’ ’em alone. She don’t do it fer long, jus’ fer a coupla minutes most nights. She can speak all right, despite what they thinks here. I know, I can hear her.’

  She closed the door a little more, as if even more cautious.

  ‘An’ sometimes, sometimes I gets frightened too ’cause I can hear somethin’ else. Soft little feet runnin’ past my door an’ goin’ into her room. Goin’ in to haunt her ’cause of what she done.’

  It was ridiculous but Gabe felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

  47: GORDON PYKE

  Loren skipped off the people-carrier, gave a wave to her new best friend Tessa (ignoring the scowl she received from Seraphina, who sat silently but grumpily in the back seat of the vehicle) and hurried across the road to the bridge. She hardly registered the dark red Mondeo parked behind her father’s Range Rover and whose driver’s door was beginning to open. She was too eager to get out of the rain and tell her mother about Seraphina, who had turned up for school that morning nursing a sore-looking nose and without a word to say to Loren. Loren had expected more trouble from the hefty girl when she eventually returned to class, but Seraphina had ignored her all day (although Loren had caught some dirty looks from her). Loren knew it was wrong, but she felt pleased that punching her seemed to have worked, for Seraphina’s intimidation had stopped. Mum would be relieved there was no further problem, though she would hide it, and Dad would be delighted, but he wouldn’t show it in front of Mum.

  She reached the wooden bridge, rain seeming to thud against her woollen beanie, and quickened her pace. Unfortunately, she didn’t realize how slippery the bridge’s planks were.

  One foot slid sharply forward and she went down, her other leg collapsing beneath her, bending so that her bare knee whacked against the wood. She cried out in pain and surprise, her school bag falling from her shoulder, spilling some of its contents onto the bridge.

  Momentarily numbed by the shock, Loren was unable to move. She sprawled on the wet boards, her weight on one elbow, eyes smarting with welling tears. Mustn’t be a baby, she told herself. Her leg wasn’t broken, it just hurt a lot. Looking down at her injured knee, she saw blood beads appearing on its scraped skin. She wondered if she would be able to walk properly. Not far to the house, but she was soaked already. She tried to rise on wobbly legs but found it difficult.

  That was when a large, strong hand reached under her shoulder and began to pull her up.

  Gabe had just come down from the room in Crickley Hall that he used as an office. Earlier that day at the Seapower office in Ilfracombe he had surprised his new colleagues with the news that he had almost solved the maintenance problems of the marine turbine. However, he preferred to work
out the details alone, without distractions, and that was probably best achieved from home. He had offered no excuse for his late arrival that morning (after visiting the old folks’ home) and none was sought – in any case, as a subcontractor to the company and technically a free agent, he was allowed some latitude, provided he came up with solutions. So Gabe had returned to Crickley Hall mid-afternoon.