Magda leaned over the circular wall and peered into the black pit as if to check that the corpse had been flushed away. Maurice copied her, but could see nothing, not even the bottom of the well. Finally, she straightened and regarded him with a cold – colder than usual – countenance.
‘If you ever tell anyone of this,’ she warned Maurice grimly, ‘then you will follow suit. Remember, it was you who bludgeoned her with the log. It was you who killed her.’
He replied earnestly, ‘I won’t tell anyone, miss, honest.’
‘Good boy.’ She gave him a wintry smile. ‘Come to my room tonight. You deserve a reward.’
The reward would be as much hers as his, he was already cynical enough to know. Suddenly, Magda no longer looked old to him – she looked ancient.
61: STORM
After skidding for the second time, Gabe decided to slow down. Fortunately, the Range Rover’s stability control and four-wheel drive had helped him avert anything serious, but he knew he had to take greater care: he had no desire to make Eve a widow and his children fatherless.
Forcing himself to ease up on the accelerator, he wondered how his daughters had taken the news of Cam’s death. Loren would have been distraught, while Cally . . . Well, maybe Cally would cry without fully comprehending the whole implication of losing a brother, what loss of life truly meant. He felt his own eyes moistening again and he shook his head as though that would stem the tears. He had to get a grip, couldn’t afford to cry, needed clear vision to see the road ahead. Driving was dangerous enough on a night like this.
By now he had left the second motorway behind and was on a smaller, country road. The windscreen wipers were on double speed, but still the glass kept filling up. The rain was not just falling on the car but was pounding it, and the wind buffeted it whenever there were gaps in the hedgerows. He passed through lonely villages that looked battened down for the night, and other vehicles that were travelling more cautiously than he. Several times he had to wait for a clear stretch of road to overtake cars and lorries in front; the headlights of oncoming traffic were intensified by the rain on the windscreen, blinding him so that he was forced to bring the Range Rover down to a crawl until they had gone by.
It was a nightmare drive and, he figured, a fitting end to a nightmarish day. At that time, Gabe had no way of knowing that the nightmare would continue long into the night.
Lightning flared, followed by a deep roll of thunder in the distance.
The row of small terraced cottages had been almshouses in days gone by, built for the needy of the parish but now individually owned. They were remote, set back from the main road and reached only by a rough track. In today’s market, estate agents would refer to them as bijou residences, and they were the type of properties sought after by city dwellers who dreamed of holiday homes or boltholes in the country. Percy Judd had been lucky enough to have lived in one of them all his life, so price was never a factor as far as he was concerned, although he had been assured of a small (but not that small) fortune by frustrated local agents and developers should he ever decide to sell.
Inside the cottage, which was at the end of the row, Percy sat in his tiny living room in front of a roaring fire, his outstretched slippered feet almost in the hearth, while the storm outside raged, shaking windows and rattling the room’s front door like some weather-beaten traveller seeking refuge for the night. He was warm and comfortable, settled there in his old, favourite (and only) armchair, a mug of cocoa in one hand, a self-rolled cigarette in the other.
With no faith in the electricity supply in such extreme weather (power cuts in the district were not infrequent when conditions were bad), Percy had lit two oil lamps, one of which stood on the inside sill of a window, the second on the room’s centre table. They and the fire in the grate gave the room a cosy glow; yet despite appearances, the old man felt uneasy.
He was wary of this kind of weather for, although he had been away on National Service with the army when the flood of ’43 had occurred, he had heard so many first-hand accounts of that night he felt almost as if he had been through it himself. And last time, he remembered being told, the rainfall had been heavy but not as consistent as these past weeks. Not that he had cause to be afraid: this row of low-roofed cottages was high up on the hill that ran down to Hollow Bay and well away from the river itself. No, it was the properties that stood on either side of the riverbanks and the village itself that were in danger should the worst happen.
A mewling caught his attention. The dog was curled up on the rug in front of the fire, inches away from Percy’s feet, and it suddenly looked towards the door. It whimpered and turned its head towards Percy, then back at the door again.
‘Not tonight, fellah,’ he said to the dog in a low gentle voice. ‘It’s a wild ’un out there, too stormy fer me to be takin’ yer out. Jus’ settle down now.’
But the animal was fidgety, restless. It uncurled itself and aligned its body so that it directly faced the door that rattled and shook in its frame. It gave a sharp yelp.
‘Hush now. Nothin’ to be gettin’ excited about. Yer been out once tonight, no need to go out again, not ’til it’s time fer bed.’
Percy flicked the last of his cigarette into the fire and reached down to pat the dog’s back reassuringly.
The dog whined.
‘What’s troublin’ yer, lad? Hear a fox out there?’
A shuttering flash of lightning filled the room’s two small windows and thunder cracked so loudly overhead that both man and dog flinched. The dog jumped up and ran to the door as if desperate to escape the close confines of the living room. It whimpered frenziedly as it scratched at the wood.
When it stood back and gave along howling moan, a deep sense of foreboding came over Percy. There was something bad in the air tonight and it wasn’t just because of the storm.
62: FRIENDLY EYES
Maurice drained the brandy, unable to make it last any longer. He smiled to himself as he remembered the day he and Magda had dumped the young teacher’s corpse into the well. At that stage he’d felt little fear, only a frisson of excitement and an anxiousness to please Magda and Augustus Cribben. The troublesome Miss Linnet was out of their lives and nobody was any the wiser. Magda had covered up the murder perfectly: even the children believed the teacher had abruptly left for London without saying goodbye because of urgent family matters. They had missed her, sure enough, moping for days afterwards, and Susan Trainer was the worst. She was profoundly disappointed in Miss Linnet and spoke to no one for a week, but even she thought that the teacher had abandoned them and returned to the city. The school authorities had merely been miffed at the teacher’s unprofessionalism and, what with the war going on and all, they had made no effort to contact her or, if they had, they hadn’t tried very hard, nor for very long.
Magda had not told her brother the full story, had just kept up the pretence that Miss Linnet had absented herself. Augustus was not concerned: he was relieved that she was gone.
Scrubbing the cellar and boiler-room floor had been a bothersome chore, but Magda and Maurice had worked at it together. After they had cleaned the relevant areas, they had swept dust back over them so that the lighter patches would not stand out. No one would ever know what had happened down there, least of all Augustus.
Maurice smiled to himself again. Magda had kept her promise to reward him that night, though her reactions as ever were mechanical and her orgasms without abandonment. She never once lost her breath. At least he had learned from her. As he had learned from Augustus. Yes, Augustus had taught him the exquisite pleasure and the power of inflicting pain. It was just a pity that the psychiatrist who had had Maurice sectioned when he was a young adult did not appreciate or understand such joys.
Maurice’s smile turned sour at that point. Some things are best forgotten.
Pulling back his shirtcuff, he checked his wristwatch. Time to go. Time he made his way up to Crickley Hall.
He stood and shrugged on
his raincoat. Allowing the walking stick to take some of the weight off his left leg, Maurice leaned to pick up his hat from the table. He put it on, then lifted the empty brandy glass.
As he went by, he placed it on the bar.
Sam Pennelly, landlord of the Barnaby Inn, broke off his conversation with two local lads at the other end of the bar and sauntered down to where the customer had just left the glass.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he called after the tall man who was limping towards the pub door. ‘Now you take care if yer drivin’. Some roads might be flooded already.’ And yer’ve had four stiff brandies, he thought, so you’re over the limit.
The tall man turned his head and in acknowledgement touched the brim of the funny little hat he wore. The landlord smiled back, thinking what friendly eyes his customer had.
A gust of wind drove heavy rain through the door when the customer opened it and the landlord watched as Maurice Stafford pulled the hat with the small feather sticking out of the headband more firmly down on his head before stepping out into the storm.
63: INNOCENTS
It was no good. She couldn’t put them out of her mind. Not Eve and her family (although their predicament did weigh on her conscience), but the children who had perished in Crickley Hall. Lili could not stop thinking about them.
Their spirits were troubled and Lili sensed only she, or someone else with her gift, could help them. But she did not know how.
Why were they bound to that miserable intimidating house? Why hadn’t their spirits passed over peacefully? Was it because they were still traumatized by their own deaths? Was something holding them there in a lonely neverworld of fear, were they somehow dominated by another force, one that was malign? She had felt it herself, had been terrified when it almost materialized in front of her and Eve. She dreaded the thought of facing it again.
But the children. They needed her help. She was convinced of it. But she had vowed never again to put herself in that position. And what if she did and next time it was the ghost of Marion that manifested itself? Would that be as terrifying? She couldn’t help cringing in her chair as lightning flashed and thunder roared overhead.
Lili poured another glass of wine and her hand shook as she brought it to her lips. Oh God, help me, tell me what I should do. Those poor innocents should not have to suffer any more. They had been tied to Crickley Hall for more than half a century, they should be allowed to continue their journey. They shouldn’t be afraid ever again. But how could she help them, what could she do?
A sob escaped her. Why was she so drawn to Crickley Hall? What was calling her from there? The children themselves? She could almost hear their small voices pleading with her, but surely that had to be in her own imagination. Was guilt causing her mind to play tricks, inventing these voices because somewhere in her deepest subconscious she felt responsible for them? Why else would she have been gifted – or cursed – with extrasensory powers if not to help lost souls find their way?
With the back of her hand, Lili wiped away a tear that had trickled down her cheek.
She couldn’t ignore them. The child spirits were desperate, she could feel their mood. They needed her so badly and she could not refuse them. Suddenly, her determination grew stronger. For the sake of her own peace of mind, she had to do something for them, even if it meant putting herself in danger. And even if Eve’s husband didn’t want Lili there, she knew she had to go back to Crickley Hall, she had to do what she could for the children.
She sensed that things were stirring in the old house, that secrets were waiting to be exposed. Perhaps when they were, the spirits would find peace. Perhaps she would, too.
Lightning flared and thunder seemed to heave itself at the room’s two windows as if to challenge her resolve. Lili trembled, but she would not give in to her fears. She put the wine glass down on the coffee table, then picked up the keys that were in an unused ashtray on the sideboard.
She headed for the door.
64: FLIGHT
Maurice Stafford stared out at the rain through the windscreen of his Ford Mondeo. The storm buffeted the car and bent the trees, the high walls of the gorge creating a natural channel for the wind that came off the moors and tore down to the sea. His car was parked in the short bay close to the bridge that spanned the river leading to Crickley Hall. Debris – branches, foliage, even rocks – was already piling up beneath it and Maurice wondered how long the wooden structure would last before it was smashed and carried away.
Curiously, his Mondeo was the only vehicle in the parking area beside the road; the Caleighs’ Range Rover, which had been evident yesterday, was missing. Did that mean the husband was away from home? Maurice had slowed down before turning into the parking area so that he could get a good look at the house across the river and was able to make out a figure in the kitchen. Even at that distance he could see that it was a woman, so it had to be the wife, Eve Caleigh. Well, that was just fine and dandy, because if the man was away, then it would make his own task – his duty – all the more easy.
Something thumped against the Mondeo’s windscreen causing Maurice to start. A loose tree branch rattled against the glass for a few moments before it was dislodged by a fresh gust of wind.
A truly dreadful night, he thought, so much like the night he and Magda had fled Crickley Hall in fear for their lives. In the shadows of the car’s interior, Maurice grimaced as he remembered.
They had run from the house, terrified of the madness they were leaving behind. Augustus Cribben’s final descent into total insanity had been swift, the terrible pains in his head driving him there it seemed. Of course, Maurice had come to realize, Augustus was always on the verge of insanity – his ways had never been entirely normal – but circumstances and excruciating pain had combined to throw his brain into a maniacal disorder that had become uncontrollable. Fortunately for them, they had left before the floodwaters had come, before the bridge had been swept away by the river that had risen above its banks, and they staggered into the storm, coatless bodies (there hadn’t been time to grab their coats) flailed by rain and tree branches, battered by great billows of wind that almost blew them off their feet. It was a torturous journey that had them clinging to each other, every footstep forced, their bodies bent almost double into the gale.
Magda would not allow them to take shelter, nor even rest a while, for she had a destination in mind and it was far away from Hollow Bay, so far away that she could never be linked with the dreadful things taking place in Crickley Hall that night. Maurice could only be led by her, for he had no one else and did not want to die. Occasionally, he looked up to see Magda’s face in profile and it was a mask of misery and horror. Once, she returned his look, as if she had felt his scrutiny, and as lightning strobed, he saw the same madness in her eyes that had been in her brother’s: her eyes were wide open, even against the bolts of rain that pelted them, the pupils black and large, and they seemed to have no focus, seemed to stare right through him. The lightning flashes ceased and she was just a dark silhouette. But he could not erase the sight of her derangement from his mind. And as they stumbled, trudged, staggered through the wind and rain, both of them so soaked that they imagined their bones were wet, Maurice came to realize that he had been wrong to think that he had held some power over the Cribbens, that he had some control because he beat and scrubbed Augustus and gave Magda pleasure when they were naked in her bed. He now understood that he had no domination over them at all, he was there to do their bidding, a slave to be rewarded with treats and favours. This was why he would not have been safe back in Crickley Hall with the other children, why he followed Magda so blindly now. Augustus was his master, Magda was his mistress. Without them he was just another parentless child.
They used smaller lanes mainly, where high hedges gave them some protection against the wind, and passed no other person, motorcar or cart as they struggled on. They had travelled several miles when Magda dropped to her knees, then threw herself to the ground.
‘Augustus . . . what have you done?’ she wailed, the words torn away by the howling wind.
Maurice knelt on both knees beside her and tugged at her shuddering shoulders.
‘Please,’ he shouted over the noise of the storm, ‘we can’t stop! There’s nowhere to hide!’ He meant nowhere to take cover, but it came out as hide.
She beat at the rough roadway with the heels of her fists, her back juddering as she sobbed. Then, without another sound, she rose to her feet, swaying with the wind. She stared at the boy, but again it was with wide vacant eyes.
‘Where are we going?’ Maurice pleaded.
But Magda just turned away and walked on as if there had been no interruption to their journey. He quickly caught up and clung to her elbow.
They stopped only twice after that, once when a stout tree branch fell into the lane before them, and again when Maurice tripped over some soft and sodden creature – a rabbit or small fox – lying dead in a puddle on the ground.
Although their weather-hindered journey must have taken several hours, Maurice had lost all sense of time and was surprised when they reached the outskirts of a town. There were no streetlights or gaslights in this part of the country and only a few upstairs windows were lit as they made their way along the road. Magda’s bent body was stiff and she seemed to be walking mechanically, like a wind-up toy. She spoke not a word to him, but when they came upon the deserted railway station, he at last understood that this had been their destination all along. The station master’s quarters and the ticket office were closed, for these were now the very early hours of the morning, but Magda led Maurice through a side gate and along to the very end of the platform where there was a backless bench. Despite the exposure, she sat them both down and Maurice huddled against her for protection. She remained stiff, upright now, her back ramrod straight, ignoring the boy, lost in her own breakdown.
The Secret of Crickley Hall Page 40