He left Magda Cribben with mixed feelings: disappointed that he had no one with whom to share the past – and they were exciting times for him – but also relieved that there was no one left to expose his former life as Maurice Stafford.
Although his exterior inspection of Crickley Hall had been fruitless, he remained drawn to it, for his few months there as a boy had marked him for life, an experience that had shaped his nature – and, though he could not know it, his destiny.
When Pyke returned to London and his job as librarian, he asked for a transfer. Somewhere in North Devon, he indicated. Meanwhile his interest in things other worldly continued and he soon found himself fascinated by all aspects of the occult. But the dreams came back with full force and Cribben’s ghost had regathered its strength, although now it appeared as a murky blackness, barely resembling the figure of a man, more of a noxious ragged mist, a strong unpleasant odour always preceding the manifestation. Despite its lack of clear definition, Pyke always knew it was Cribben’s shade, for its overwhelming malevolence was the same and with it there always came the familiar swish-thwack sound, only as a kind of distant echo it was true, but nevertheless there to remind him of the punishment cane, the harbinger of pain that had terrified the orphans of Crickley Hall so. The dreams also revived their intensity – and their clarity – so that sleep became an ordeal once more. Pyke suffered his second psychological breakdown.
Considered to be a danger to himself as well as others when his rages got out of control, he was involuntarily committed to the psychiatric ward of a large London hospital. Fortunately for Pyke, treatment for mental illness had improved significantly since he was a boy and within three months his condition had improved enough for him to be discharged (the doctors weren’t to know that his apparent return to normality was because the hauntings and the power of the nightmares had waned again, making it easier for him to cope).
His position at the library had been generously held open for him, although the chief librarian regarded Gordon Pyke’s request for a transfer to the West Country a priority: the slower pace of life would be of benefit to his neurotic employee. As luck would have it, a vacancy for an assistant librarian shortly came up in the large Devon town of Barnstaple and Pyke duly went down to the beautiful county and took the job.
Growing older did not dim his interest in psychic phenomena and spontaneous psychic activity. If anything, his fascination with the subject increased as the years went by, for he longed to know what lay beyond death and he needed to be assured that Cribben’s ghost was not hallucinatory, a figment of his own imagination (which would mean he truly was mad). He read the works of respected psychical researchers from which he learned that certain people could attract and concentrate psychic forces. He also learned that nobody yet knows the boundaries of what is considered normal, nor the extremities of that which is considered supernormal. He learned practical methods of detecting the possible presence of a ghost by the simple use of a thermometer or thermograph: when a ghost is present it seems to create a partial vacuum which results in a drop in pressure and temperature (the atmosphere certainly became cold whenever Cribben’s spirit appeared to him). And it was also reaffirmed to him that a ghost is generally an earthbound spirit trapped in the physical world because of trauma at death or unfinished business (what could Augustus Cribben have left unfinished? he asked himself yet again). He also learned that a violent act can sometimes leave a psychic imprint on a place that later will attract supernatural activity (even he, so very much alive, was strangely drawn to Crickley Hall, so why not spirits too? ).
Pyke was absorbed with the works of psychic investigators and began to wonder if he himself could become one. Divorced, a routine, undemanding career, plenty of spare evenings and weekends – why not become a part-time ghost-hunter? He certainly had good knowledge of what was involved by now. Over the following months he acquired some of the basic equipment recommended for such investigations, simple things like notebooks, thermometers (including the greenhouse type), coloured pencils and crayons, synthetic black thread as well as white cotton thread, tape measures (one of them an architect’s thirty-three-foot leather-cased winding tape), talcum powder, drawing pins, graph paper, torches, and also more expensive items like cameras for colour, black-and-white, and infra-red film, a Polaroid camera, tripod, digital camcorder, spring balance (for weight of objects if moved), strain gauge (for measuring force to open or close doors), voltmeter, portable sound-recorder, frequency-change detector, instruments for measuring atmospheric pressure, vibration, wind force and humidity, and a magnetometer. There were other more expensive and sophisticated items that would be useful, such as closed-circuit television, a capacity-change recorder, or an Acorn computer that had the ability to monitor changes in temperature, light and vibration, and having sound-recording equipment attached, but Pyke decided he’d collected enough for his amateur status. The good thing was that no licence or degrees in psychic phenomena were required.
He joined various associations connected with parapsychological studies and psychic research and attended spiritual meetings (which he was surprised to discover thrived in both towns of Barnstaple and Ilfracombe) where he made useful contacts. Through these, and by placing small discreet ads in local newspapers and freesheets, he began to gain clients who wanted his expertise’ in investigating hauntings in their homes, pubs and once even a theatre. His efforts generally met with success, often finding quite natural reasons for supposed supernatural or paranormal activity, while at other times confirming that yes, there was a ghost or ghosts on the premises.
When Pyke reached the age of sixty-five, he retired from the library and devoted more of his time to ghost-hunting. There were never very many cases to investigate or explore, but just enough to occupy him in his retirement. He had even written papers on some of his investigations and submitted them to the London Society for Psychical Research, which had never published any but had kept them on file, commending him for his work. In order to drum up more business, he made use of a cuttings agency which sent him any news items or features from the south-west journals concerning suspected or alleged hauntings. These he would follow up by getting in touch with the ‘victims’ involved (always quickly, to get in before any fellow investigators who used the same methods of finding cases) and offer his services. The fact that he was financially comfortable (he had never squandered his small inheritance and the money he received from the sale of his old London home, and there was still a reasonable residue left) meant he did not have to charge would-be clients – he only asked remuneration for his expenses – and this made him instantly attractive to them.
He invariably presented himself as a knowledgeable and sympathetic sceptic and his apparent normality, plus his engaging manner, swiftly won people over. Yet despite his usual successes and resolved cases, he had never discovered the cause of his own hauntings.
Over a period of time, he had approached four reputable mediums in the hope that they would come up with an answer to the mystery, but the first two had regarded him with something like fear in their expressions and had asked him to leave immediately, while the third had cried out, then collapsed in a heap on the floor only moments after going into a trance. Her husband, who had been present, demanded that Pyke leave the house and never come back. The fourth and last, without even going into a trance, had warned him that he would be tormented by hauntings until something was resolved and only he could know what it was. Bewildered, he had asked the medium how she knew this, but she had avoided looking at him directly in the eyes and refused to reply. But as he had reluctantly turned and was walking away, she called after him, her voice quiet yet her words distinct.
‘It will only get worse for you,’ she had told him. ‘Unless you fulfil his wish – no, his command – if you don’t, you’ll never be free of him. It’ll become unbearable, you’ll suffer . . .’
But he refused to listen any more as he hobbled away, moving as fast as his bad leg would allow. Th
e medium had not provided any answer, she had just given him a dire warning, filling him with fear for the future.
That was a year ago and the medium had been right: the hauntings had become worse, worse than when he had been a boy even. Pyke had begun to be afraid for his sanity again, for the ghost of Augustus Cribben now came so close to him that he could smell the putridity of its inner core over the noxious fumes that accompanied its presence. The atmosphere would become so cold that his body, which was in paralysis, felt like ice, a frozen vessel in which his mind was trapped. He was afraid to sleep, night or day, because the dreams had found fresh vigour and were as clear as reality, and they came to him at anytime. He was exhausted and nervous, and he knew he could not go on like this, that the hauntings and nightmares would break him as they had before, only this time he would not recover, this time he would be broken for good.
Then, just five months ago, depleted and desperate, he did something he should have done long, long ago, for it gave him the answer for which he had been searching, the way of resolution.
He used the microfiche reader facility in the same library where he had once been employed and he sourced the front pages of national and local daily newspapers for October 1943.
With these he had travelled back to the past.
Now it was October again. Late October. But it was the present. Not quite the same day as when the Devil’s Cleave had become a huge conduit for the wind as well as a giant gutter for the swollen river and rainwater from the moors, but close enough.
Gordon Pyke sheltered from the storm in the metal cocoon of his car, reliving his life and anticipating the final closure from the years of torment.
Enough of memories, he mentally snapped at himself. Time to deal with the present. It was as if all the years since leaving Crickley Hall as a twelve-year-old boy had been leading up to this point, as if he had been directed – driven – back to this ugly old house. Tonight was perfect. It wasn’t quite the same date, the day and the week were different, but that was okay, it didn’t matter because everything else was right. Tonight he would free himself.
Fierce rain assaulted his face and shoulders when he pushed open the Mondeo’s door. He climbed out awkwardly, gritting his teeth as he cricked his knee. The wind nearly tore the hat from his head, but he clamped a big hand down on it in time to save it. With both hands he gripped the narrow brim and secured the hat firmly. Reaching back into the car he drew out his sturdy hardwood walking stick, then pulled open the rear door and dragged out a huge worn leather suitcase. It was heavy, but he was a large man and still strong.
He straightened, paused for a moment to look across the foaming river at Crickley Hall, then made his way to the bridge.
65: THE DRIVE BACK
Wind-driven rain lashed at the Range Rover’s windows and bodywork, and Gabe took the bend in the road cautiously. The roadway was so narrow that another skid might take him into a ditch on one side, or into the trees on the other, despite the vehicle’s stability control. Nothing was foreseeable on such a vile night.
It was just as well he had slowed down because the road dipped just beyond the curve and rainwater had created a mini-lake across its surface. Even the ditch on the left was not enough to carry the water away. Normally, he would have changed down to a low gear and driven steadily through the flood, confident that the 4x4 had the height and power to pass through it, but his headlights lit up another vehicle ahead which had become immobilized in the middle of the road.
Two heads turned round to look at him through the other car’s rear window, their anxious faces lit up by the Range Rover’s strong lights, and he saw it was a young man and girl trapped in their Ford Fiesta. They looked too young to be married, nothing more than teenagers. Maybe this was their first date, Gabe thought, and the guy had made a jerk of himself trying to take the flood too fast or too slow, the Fiesta in the wrong gear.
Gabe thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. All he wanted to do was to get back to Eve and the girls, to be there with them in their mutual grief. He didn’t need this.
The driver’s door of the Fiesta opened and the young man stepped out into the water, which came almost up to his knees. He splashed towards Gabe, desperation on his face. Gabe pressed a button and his side window slid down. Ignoring the rain that battered his face, he stuck his head out, an elbow resting on the sill. Despite the weather, the kid approaching him wore only Kaiser Chiefs T-shirt over baggy trousers. Tree branches were waving with the force of the wind and ripples coursed across the newly made lake that concealed the roadway; the Range Rover shuddered with each fresh gust.
‘We got stuck!’ the other driver, who was, as he had thought, no more than a teenager, shouted out pointlessly when he got as far as the Range Rover’s bonnet.
‘Yeah, looks like you did,’ Gabe called back. He was impatient to get on his way.
The drenched kid came up to the side window and Gabe couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The teenager’s long hair was now plastered to his scalp and the soggy T-shirt stuck to his skinny chest.
‘The car just stopped halfway through,’ he bellowed mournfully into Gabe’s ear. ‘We didn’t realize the puddle was so deep.’
Puddle? The way ahead was concealed by a mini-lake.
‘Can you help us?’ the kid pleaded hopefully.
‘I can get you out of it,’ Gabe shouted back, ‘but I don’t know how well your engine’s taken it. You may not get it started till it’s dried out again. You’ve probably sucked up water through the exhaust.’
The drenched kid looked forlorn, rainwater dripping off his nose. ‘We need to get to the next village. My girlfriend lives there.’
‘How far?’
‘’Bout five miles.’
Good, Gabe thought. He wouldn’t have to go out of his way if he gave the couple a lift. ‘Look, I haven’t got a tow rope, but if you put your car in neutral, I can push it out from behind. When we’re out of the flood, steer towards the side of the road. You can leave it there and Ill take you to your friend’s place, then you can get a garage to collect your car. Doubt you’ll get anyone out tonight, though, not in this weather.’
They both jumped when they heard a sharp crack from across the road. A stout branch of a nearby tree snapped off and dangled by sinews over the road.
‘Let’s get to it,’ shouted Gabe.
‘Thanks, man. I owe you.’
The young guy splashed back to his own car and through its rear window Gabe could see him explaining the situation to his girlfriend. Still lit up by the Range Rover’s headlights, the girl turned and waved back a thank-you.
Gabe engaged first gear. ‘Okay, let’s see what we can do,’ he murmured to himself and set the 4x4 in motion.
66: GHOST-HUNTER
The wind blew the front door wide open and rain flew in with it when Eve answered the croaky doorbell.
The tall figure of a man stood on the doorstep, a walking stick in one hand, a very big suitcase set on the ground by his right leg. Lightning flared behind him so that his face and body were momentarily in silhouette. The boom of thunder quickly followed and Eve almost recoiled from the sound.
She was still in an emotional daze from news of her son’s death, although outwardly, and for the sake of her daughters, she appeared calm and collected. She waited for the other person to speak.
‘Mrs Caleigh?’ the big man queried even though he knew full well who she was. ‘Gordon Pyke. We met yesterday.’ He was puzzled by the lack of expression on her face, but nevertheless he smiled warmly.
‘Mr Pyke,’ she said at last.
A cold draught wrapped itself round her body and rain spat at her through the doorway.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed again. ‘You and your husband agreed that I should come back tonight to make tests.’
‘Tests? I’m sorry . . .’
‘May I come in? I’m afraid the storm is rather fierce.’
Eve stepped aside as he hoisted the suitcase and c
ame into the house. She was too confused – and her senses were too blunted – to object.
‘You do remember, Mrs Caleigh?’ Pyke took off his little hat and smacked rain from it against his thigh. He rested the brown leather suitcase on the stone-flagged floor.
Eve shut the front door, exerting pressure as the wind fought to keep it open. Although they could hear the gale outside and the rain lashing the high window, it became comparatively quiet inside the grand hall.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said distractedly in answer to his question. But I didn’t expect you . . .’ Her words trailed off.
‘Oh yes, that was the arrangement. Your husband was rather keen that I help you with your problem.’
‘Problem?’
‘The suspected haunting. I’m here to look into the matter. There are no ghosts here, I can assure you of that.’ Pyke was sticking to the line he’d used on Gabe Caleigh, that of a pragmatic sceptic. ‘Even better,’ he added, ‘I’ll prove it to you.’
His natural smile was disarming. He indicated the dripping suitcase. ‘If I could just set up my equipment? I promise I won’t get in anybody’s way.’ He beamed his kind eyes on her and the smile beneath his small, grey-streaked beard was warm, charming. Somehow, understanding. She caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath. ‘We need to agree on what rooms can be off-limits to you and your family once I’ve prepared them. I’ll have cameras and sound-recorders in them, you see. And instruments for measuring movement and pressure change. Also, don’t be surprised if you find talcum powder sprinkled on the floor or furniture. It’s for possible footprints and handprints. Quite easy to vacuum up afterwards.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s not . . .’ Eve was going to say, it’s not convenient, but the word was hardly apt for the circumstances. ‘We’ve – we’ve had very bad news today,’ she finished lamely.
The Secret of Crickley Hall Page 43