Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle (2 page)

On the dummy’s head — a metal skull cap was closed halfway on the scalp, and painted blood dripped down from where the circle of spikes penetrated the rubber flesh.

In the daytime, a small motor wired to a cheap timer would make that torture device open and then close, accompanied by a pre-recorded scream.

Made all the visitors scream too!

Ha, still puts joy in my heart to watch ‘em jump,
thought Oswald.
All the girls squealing. Chaps too, sometimes …

Now, nothing moved, and the dummy prisoner sat silently.

Okay,
he thought.

Now to the big room, around a long curved section in the stone hallway.

Walking around that curve, the lights only caught the next bit of darkness ahead.

So familiar, yet Oswald walked slowly.

His old wellies making a sloshing noise with each step.

Damn things must have a crack — some dank basement water trapped there. Or murky water that had leaked in from the river.

The river.

Beautiful to see, he thought. But a pain in the arse to keep out of this thousand-year-old building. Even parts of the main manor house attached to the ruins were perpetually wet.

The curved path opened up into a larger room, a hall.

The Executioner’s Room.

A true Chamber of Horrors!
Oswald loved to proclaim as he showed visitors around.

And with little regard for history, three different types of execution were represented here.

First, a wooden gallows, with an enemy of the King dangling, his Roundhead eyes popping. Over the years this victim’s neck had stretched, giving the corpse a goose-like look.

Then, moving on to another hapless mannequin, this one chained to a stone wall, a bowl of food just out of reach, his emaciated body showing ribs jutting out … suggesting death by starvation.

Finally — for this part of the ‘historic’ site—the
piece de resistance
.

The Electric Chair!

No one ever raised the awkward truth that there had never been one here, or questioned the historical plaques on either side that referred to a time in the twenties when the castle served as prison and homicidal lunatics were killed here … ‘
in just this way …’

Everyone loved it when ‘Old Sparky’ came to life — suddenly, without notice — and ripples of lights and electric sparks travelled along the chair; all harmless, nothing more than a light show with the force of static electricity.

For safety’s sake, that light show and its timers had to be shut down as soon as the last customer had left.

And anyway, such displays aren’t cheap to run.

Each night Edwina, always anxious, insisted that he make
sure
all was quiet down here.

Tonight — he’d told her he’d forgotten.

He lowered the torch.

Then turned the light off.

Almost … enjoying the scary gloominess.

When suddenly a lightning bolt flashed in the painted window, and the man in the chair opened his eyes wide, mouth gaping open too, rubbery, exposing rotten teeth that had grown blacker over the decades.

Oswald instinctively took a step back.

Then — the chair sparked. Pops of electricity exploded where manacles held the victim’s wrists. Then the spark travelled up to where the head was held tight in place by a steel band.

Small lights on the chair popped like mad flashbulbs.

While — frozen, numb — Oswald watched all alone.

And when he raised his torch, flicked it on, he could now see everything else that had changed in here …

A little later, Edwina lay in bed, blanket already turned off, multiple covers pulled tight, while she waited.

And waited.

What her husband had been sent to do should have only taken a few minutes.

But this had been much longer than that.

She spoke to herself. Something she did quite frequently these days since she’d discovered self-conversation to be immeasurably more stimulating than trying to discuss virtually anything with her husband.

“Whatever is he up to? Dilly dallying! Getting himself a last little snifter, I’ll bet!”

That’s what she said.

But what she thought was a bit different, and threatened to make these solitary moments more resemble a three-way conversation.

She thought:
he should be back by now.

After all those nasty letters telling us to get out, leave, sell the place, something might happen.

Anonymous letters!

This ancient castle was scary enough without threatening letters sent by who knows who!

She stayed in bed for a few minutes more, blanket tight against her chin, hoping that a wellie-free Oswald would soon come thumping up the curved stairs.

But when that didn’t happen …

“God …” she said.

She slipped her feet into her slippers — once lined with cosy lamb’s wool, now worn away by years of cold draughty nights. Then, she put on her heavy flannel dressing gown, tying the belt tight.

She picked up her mobile.

She had no intention of taking a single step downstairs without that!

Oswald had taken the big torch. But no matter — as she went down, Edwina would be throwing on
all
the lights.

She went to the spiral staircase that led eventually to the castle dungeon, and with the greatest reluctance, started on her way down.

*

Edwina had flicked on the master switches at the bottom of the stairs.

Of course Oswald wouldn’t have done that! Just another thing he’d forget to undo when he came back up.

‘
Did you turn the lights off?’

‘Um — oh — sorry, dear, I—’

So forgetful, he could make a pastime of going up and down the stairs just to check on all the things he’d likely forgotten!

Now the stone corridor ahead was brightly lit. The stone showed damp spots — condensation that an expert said would require a major dehumidifier system to get rid of.

As if!

And some spots glowed green, mossy patches catching the light.

Such a scary place!

How she wished they would sell it. But though Oswald tended to do her every bidding without so much as whimper –

(
Well, all right … he did whimper now and then …)

– when it came to unloading the family estate — the grounds, the castle, the attached house with its strange rooms filled with all sorts of bizarre claptrap — on that point Oswald held firm.

Probably because he actually believes that balderdash about royal blood coursing in the FitzHenry veins!

Perhaps … she thought … these threatening notes might turn out to be a good thing. Perhaps … if more came, he might think seriously about selling this house of economic horrors …

“Oswald?” she finally said, walking past the poor rubbery soul who had his head impaled by a spiky cap all day long.

Ridiculous thing.

And the witches’ cell!

Why would anyone these days want to see
that?

Today it was all about vampires, and those zombie things. But would Oswald even
think
about updating this place with some modern stuff that the kids liked?

No.

“I’m a traditionalist,”
he’d say.

Or talk of how everything here was based on history.

She’d just laugh at that.

“Oswald,” she shouted now. “What in God’s name are you doing—”

A bright flash flickered from the room ahead. The glow sent shafts of brilliant light into the hall, and she guessed her husband must still be there.

Curious. Why was everything he was supposed to shut down still in full operation?

What was he doing? Knocking back the Famous Grouse while watching the pretty lights electrocute the hapless mannequin?

She reached the room, her breathing deep, a sigh because Oswald was there.

All looked okay.

(
And she had to admit … she had been a little worried. He might be stubborn and pretty obtuse, but he was — nonetheless — her husband …)

But Oswald turned and his doughy face was tight, with an expression of …

What? Fear? Confusion?

Utter rabbit in the headlights.

“Oswald, what in the world are you doing down here, with all this—”

But before she finished, he had raised his arm and pointed to the display which — save for Edwina noting the sparks and flashbulb-like popping of lights — she hadn’t looked at.

Now she saw what had made Oswald stop, stand here.

And all Edwina could say was … “
Gawd Almighty …”

*

Edwina couldn’t believe what she saw. Nor, she guessed, could Oswald.

The lighting effects and sparks of the electric chair all worked fine.

But the dummy in the chair with his bulging eyes now wore a placard around his neck that read: ‘Oswald FitzHenry — R.I.P.’

And the chap hanging like a sausage from the gallows held a sign in his previously empty clenched fists … ‘
Leave this castle now!’

It got worse. Blood red paint on the walls screamed in giant block letters, ‘Go! Get Out!’

Then another painted message, (though in truth this one said something that Edwina actually agreed with) … ‘
Combe Castle is cursed!’

Finally she spoke since all Oswald seemed able to do was look at her.

“Oswald. What’s happened here?”

He shook his head.

Of course.

“I — I don’t know, Edwina. I walked in, and this was all here. Th-they even splashed blood, over there, on the floor …”

Now it was Edwina’s turn to shake her head.

Blood?

Unlikely … just more red paint.

But when she walked over to an open space separating the hanged man and the dummy strapped to the chair, she could see … from how shiny and slippery it looked … then—

The smell.

“Oh God,” she said again. “It
is
blood. Pig’s blood or something!”

And when she looked at Oswald again, his eyes looking as crazed as any of the characters in the diorama.

She thought then of saying — strongly, firmly, no discussion this time — that they
had
to sell this place. No matter who wanted them gone.

After all, it’s just one big money drain, despite the legendary FitzHenry family royal connections.

But she knew her husband and she wondered, even after all this, whether he would budge.

She walked over to him. “Someone must have broken in here,” she said. “After we closed.”

That made Oswald look around, his torch still on.

He nodded.

Then: “We have to get help. We can’t deal with this by ourselves …” Edwina said.

“Right.”

“First thing tomorrow. This is bad.”

A nod.

Then, because for now there was nothing else to do, she said:

“Turn it all off, Oswald. And come to bed.”

“Should I get … my shotgun?”

She rolled her eyes.

The idea of Oswald in bed with her, shotgun within his reach, was even scarier than the vandalism and threats inside this room.

“No.”

He nodded. Then she watched as Oswald found the set of switches that shut off the screams, the lights, the sparks … and stopped the endless execution.

And, hands clasped tightly, they made their way up the curving steps, to their chilly bedroom.

Sarah grabbed some vegetables — tired carrots, beans that looked barely fresh, a head of romaine, and a little box of Brussels sprouts that she was sure the kids wouldn’t be too pleased with no matter how she prepared them.

Then down to the meat aisle, to sweeten the deal with some juicy burgers, sautéed in onions.

She stood there, searching for the pack of mince with the lowest fat content.

Things had been slow at her design business. Holidays coming soon and most of the flyers and brochures announcing the festive events to come — including this year’s Christmas pantomime — were already done.

The Drama Society’s pantomime flyer had been great fun to work on with Grace, as they created a garish and colourful array of grinning local ‘stars’ weirdly dressed as everything from Robin Hood, to Aladdin, to what appeared to be an outlandish version of the Prime Minister with bright pink hair and rhinestone glasses.

This panto,
she thought,
is one not to be missed
.

She found a pack of meat that fitted the bill. And then turned around.

When she saw two people standing in front of her.

*

For a moment Sarah thought they might just want to get past her to the meat counter.

But no — they had their eyes trained on her, and were — in fact — blocking Sarah’s way.

Then they turned and looked at each other like some married version of Tweedledum and Tweedledee … and finally the man spoke.

“Excuse me, you’re Sarah Edwards, yes?”

Sarah nodded as she put the mince into her basket.

“The one who solves mysteries, correct?”

At this point another shopper, a burly woman picking through the chicken breasts, looked up, all ears for a conversation that wasn’t hers.

Sarah thought …
maybe this detective business is bringing me a little too much notoriety.

At least for the small village of Cherringham.

“Yes, I’ve managed to solve one or two things, with my friend—”

The man raised a finger like a schoolboy with the right answer.

“The American.”

“That’s right, um … look — I was just picking up a few things for dinner. Do you … have a question?”

The man nodded and took a breath.

Sarah stepped into a side aisle to get out of the way of the burly woman passing through, and stood by the row of breakfast cereal boxes.

The pair pivoted, following her.

“Come on, Oswald,” the woman said. “Spit it out, man.”