The Secret of Crickley Hall (48 page)

He had found her waiting for him outside the bathroom door as usual after the scrubbing of her brother and this time there was a peculiar lustre to her usually cold eyes. After he'd closed the bathroom door behind him, leaving the naked man alone to continue his now-gibbering prayers, she had beckoned Maurice to follow. Cribben's sister led the boy along the dingy landing to her bedroom, where she had drawn him in by tugging at his shirtsleeve. She brought him to her bed and, still wordlessly, she lay him down on it. She turned off the bedside lamp and he heard her undressing in the darkness.

If Magda was disappointed with her young lover—he may have been big and mature for his age, but he
was
only twelve years old!—she didn't reveal it. Instead, she told him to pray with her and beg the Lord's forgiveness for the mortal sin they committed, only they must do it quietly so that they wouldn't be heard by her brother should he pass by her door during his nocturnal prowling. An hour later, after many repeated acts of contrition, Maurice was allowed to leave and sneak up to the dormitory.

Next day, Magda was her usual cold, stone-faced self, although she treated him with less severity than the other boys and girls. Augustus Cribben also regarded Maurice with less asperity, never once using the cane on him nor punishing him in any other way—not that Maurice ever did anything to occasion the guardian's displeasure. In a way, he had become part of Crickley Hall's ruling triumvirate, although his own power was limited to informing on the other orphans and keeping them in order whenever Cribben or Magda were busy in other parts of the house.

And so it went on: The flogging, then scrubbing of Augustus Cribben, the loveless trysts with Magda. All this went on while the other children lived in misery, with daily punishments, sparse rations and lack of love (which was the most needed).

The little Jewish boy was singled out for particular punishment. Maurice was delighted to tell Magda that Stefan had climbed into Susan Trainer's bed one night and slept with her until morning call. Magda was disgusted (and perversely pleased) to hear of such naughtiness and Stefan was at once taken down to the bitterly cold, damp cellar and left there all day and all night, on his own in the dark, the only sound he would hear being the rushing water at the bottom of the well. It was a dreadful punishment, for the total darkness could conjure all manner of monsters and demons in the mind of a five-year-old child, especially one who was already traumatized by personal tragedy. Susan Trainer had protested, shouting at both Cribben and Magda, and had received six strokes of the cane for her trouble. Maurice had smirked when she continued to plead for the little boy and had taken six more strokes, this time across the knuckles of her hand. That had shut her up all right, although she had howled with pain. When Stefan had been brought up from the cellar next day, he was pale and quieter than ever before. He was cowed.

Maurice enjoyed himself at Crickley Hall. He revered Augustus Cribben, who remained the dominant one; even during the canings and scrubbings, the boy was merely his acolyte, his chattel, which suited Maurice fine. And Maurice also enjoyed his secret liaisons and alliance with Magda, even if her body was skin and bones and her breasts were tiny and flat (such imperfections did not bother the boy; his sexual awakening was too glorious for criticism). Life, if a little austere, was good at Crickley Hall and he revelled in it.

But then that interfering busybody Nancy Linnet had come along and tried to spoil things.

59: THUNDER

Loren and Cally were in their room, both of them subdued. Eve had waited 'til Loren returned from school, and then had explained to them both that their brother would not be coming back to them, that he had drowned a year ago when she had lost him in the park. The two sisters had sobbed in their mother's arms for a long time afterwards, but Eve had not wept with them. She did not understand why this was so, only that her thoughts—and heart—were numbed; there were no reserves of emotion left. She knew the certainty of Cam's death should have broken her, but she realized that perhaps she had been broken that first day he'd gone missing. And every single day that followed.

So instead of grieving she had kept herself busy, tidying the house, washing the kitchen floor (so much mud trodden in because of the mucky weather), making the beds, laying new fires in the sitting room and the great hall, anything to keep herself occupied. It wasn't that she didn't think of Cam—his lovely face was a constant image on the screen of her mind, but only partially formed; it was when she closed her eyes that all the colours and features of his face were filled in. She was coping, that was all she could say of herself, but she did not know how long it would last. Until her emotions filled to spilling point once more, she supposed.

Right now, she was preparing her daughters' evening meal while they rested (their crying seemed to have left both girls utterly worn out). As she checked the softness of the boiling potatoes with a sharp knife, she heard the rumbling of distant thunder. Crossing over to the kitchen sink, she leaned forward and peered out of the window.

It was too dark to see much outside but when, after a few seconds, sheet lightning stuttered along the gorge, she saw the swing beneath the big oak rocking from side to side, pitched by strong winds. The bridge was lit up too, and the boiling river that passed under it. Disconcertingly, the water level was high, almost brimming over the top of the riverbank. The sight made her drop the knife into the sink.

The thunder that followed the lightning was much louder now, as if it were rolling round the gorge itself, and its noise made Eve cringe. Gabe. She needed Gabe to be with her. But she had urged him not to drive all the way back from London. He would be weary with all the travelling, plus he must still be shocked, having had to identify Cam's little body (he hadn't told her how their son looked, but she realized that after a year in the water—No! she mustn't think of that, she mustn't try to picture the condition his body would be in!). She insisted that her mind should stay on Gabe. All she knew was that she needed him here, with her and the children. But he shouldn't drive, not all that way, not in this weather. Would he see sense and stay in London?

A fierce gust of wind shook the window and kitchen door, causing Eve to take an involuntary step backwards.

She heard other parts of the house creak, contracting timbers, storm-battered windows, the oaken front door shifting on its hinges. Eve hated this place. Even though it was she who tried to persuade Gabe to stay, she loathed Crickley Hall for what it was: a morgue in which eleven children had perished along with their cruel guardian. You could almost feel the house's pitiful history…

She gave a little shudder. So cold, always so cold here.

The lights suddenly dipped, brightened, dipped again, then became bright once more.

Oh, please no,
Eve thought almost drily,
please don't let the power blow. That's all we need on a night like this.

She jumped when a loud crash came from the hall. Walking quickly to the kitchen's inner door, she went out into the hall to see what had made the racket. It happened again, but this time she saw the cause.

The cellar door had swung open, its edge hitting the wood-panelled wall behind. The door began to swing back in rebound, but it stopped halfway and was thrown wide again.

Eve hurried forward, shoes briskly clattering on the stone floor. She caught the door just as it was about to repeat the process and smash into the wall behind it. Holding it still, she looked into the dark cavernous cellar below, the draught that came up the steps from the well strong enough to ruffle her hair. It was silly, but to her the dense blackness there seemed to be pressing upwards as though riding the current of chilled air.

Eve closed the door and locked it, even though she knew it wouldn't stay shut. The key was icy to her touch.

60: THE KILLING

Maurice Stafford had decided another Hennessy was in order—but no more after this one, didn't want his breath to stink of alcohol when he went up to the house—and he had brought it back to his cosy little nook in the inn. He hooked his walking stick over the curved back of his chair.

The pub was getting even busier and he detected a collective nervousness in the drinkers' banter, their occasional laughter just a decibel or two louder than it ought to have been. Oh, they felt comfortable enough inside the bar, but he doubted any one of them was unaware of the storm outside for one single moment. The
crack
of thunder was directly overhead now; it had moved across country and found a nice little harbour bay to torment. It was quite funny to watch the inn's patrons glance towards the thick leaded windows whenever lightning flashed or thunder boomed. Bumpkins, the lot of them. Not his type of folk at all. But then, there were very few that were. Maurice wasn't very fond of people.

He picked up his previous train of thought. One day, Nancy Linnet had arrived at Crickley Hall, sent there by the education department to help out with the teaching of the evacuees. Probably they didn't know what to do with her.

Prissy Missy Nancy Linnet couldn't do enough for Augustus and Magda at first. Pretty little face with tumbling locks of copper-coloured hair and Maurice had been quite smitten with her until he realized the shawl she wore round her back and over her lower arms concealed a hideous deformity. Oh, that spoilt the effect all right, that marred her looks. Her hand was a withered twisted claw, the arm above it up to the elbow just as unsightly. But she couldn't hide it all the time. When her shawl slipped and Maurice saw the disfigurement it had almost made him sick. God's punishment for her past and future sins, Magda had quietly told him. The Lord was wont to punish in this life as well as the next.

The young handyman/gardener had taken a shine to her, though, as if he didn't notice the horrible affliction. It had turned out to be propitious when Percy Judd was drafted into the army and taken away from Crickley Hall.

She loved the kids. Spoilt them. Always smiling at them and patting their heads as if they were angels from God. Didn't have a clue how to discipline them, although they always behaved when she was around; they weren't afraid to open their mouths to her. The kids adored Miss Linnet.

Well, she never patted Maurice's head. He couldn't even remember her smiling at him. Maybe the first couple of days. Then she turned against him, even though he tried to please her. So he turned against her, reported her soft ways with the orphans to Magda, knowing Magda would tell Augustus.

But as the weeks went by, the teacher became more and more rebellious, protesting whenever Augustus had cause to chastise the older children with the cane, and actually blocked his way when he tried to punish the younger ones by the same means. She was against all other punishments too, the denial of food, the hall vigil, Magda's leather-belt strapping—she decried all these punishments.

Then one day if happened: Miss Linnet threatened to go to the school authorities and denounce the Cribbens for the cruel (her word) way they treated the evacuees. Susan Trainer had been the catalyst.

It was evening and the children were taking their turns in the bath. Susan had been washing the smaller ones until it was time for her to dip into the three inches of water with Brenda Prosser. Maurice had been at the landing door that lead up to the dormitory, making sure the children went straight to bed after their baths, when a panicky scream had pierced the air.

Magda Cribben, at her usual place on a chair outside the bathroom, shot to her feet. Over the balcony, Maurice saw Augustus quickly striding across the hall, alerted by the noise. His footsteps were heavy on the stairs and he passed by Maurice with a look of thunder on his face. Maurice followed him to the bathroom's open door, where Augustus stopped abruptly, the boy almost bumping into him. Maurice peered over his guardian's shoulder.

Brenda was out of the bath, dripping water onto the tiled floor. She was naked and shivering, her frightened eyes on the cowering figure still in the bath. Magda slapped her face to stop her gibberings.

The naked figure in the bath was Susan and her legs were bent, her shoulders hunched, and blood was visible on her fingers as she clutched herself between her legs. The blood had streaked her legs and turned the bathwater red. Maurice remembered the scene as if it were yesterday.

'Susan's hurt,' Brenda wailed, pointing at her older friend.

Maurice was fascinated, not by the sight of two nude girls, Susan with her budding breasts, but by the blood on Susan's legs. Augustus seemed to be transfixed.

'Stop it, child!' Magda told Brenda briskly, and pushed her to one side. The teacher's eyes narrowed and her voice was full of disdain. 'You horrid, dirty girl,' she rasped at Susan. Grabbing a damp towel from the metal rack, she shoved it at the distressed eleven-year-old. 'Use this! Soak up the bleeding!'

'What is it, miss?' Susan asked timorously. 'Am I dying?'

'Of course you're not' There was no compassion in Magda's reassurance, only anger and disgust. 'There's nothing the matter with you.'

'Why am I bleeding?'

'Because you're impure. This is a woman's illness, a curse from the Lord to punish them for Original Sin.'

'But I haven't sinned, miss. I promise, I haven't done anything.'

'Well, you must have. You're far too young for
menstruation.'
She spat the word out, as if its mere expression was iniquitous. 'You're a wicked girl!'

Augustus finally spoke, and his voice was brutal. 'She must be kept away from the others or her uncleanliness will taint them all.'

In the corner of the bathroom, Brenda was now crouched and sobbing. Susan had shrunk away from Magda and was cringing against the tiled wall.

'Please help me,' she pleaded, first looking at the woman, and then at the man.