The Secret of Crickley Hall (39 page)

Stepping up to the doorway and looking over the nurse's shoulder, the engineer immediately set eyes on Magda Cribben.

Although there was an easychair in the room, the aged woman was seated on a hardbacked chair by the tidy bed.

'Now, I'll leave you to it,' said Iris, moving aside to let Gabe through. 'It's all right, she will hear you, but don't expect a response. If she does speak, believe me, we'll all come running. They tell me she hasn't spoken a word since the last world war, even though there's nothing physically wrong with her. Not a peep, not a whisper.'

She called into the room, this time using a louder voice. 'A gentleman has come to see you, Magda, isn't that nice? He's a relative from America and he's come all this way to visit you, so be nice to him.' The nurse winked conspiratorially at Gabe, but he did not react. 'Go right in, Mr Caleigh. You can pull the armchair round or sit on the bed, whichever you prefer.'

With an unconvincing smile, she ambled away, back in the direction they had come.

Gabe entered the room.

•

Who is this man? He was a stranger, she'd never seen him before, and he was certainly no relative because she had none. Only Augustus, her dear brother, gone now, gone a long time ago. Perhaps that was for the best—they would have persecuted him if he hadn't drowned. But she did not want this strange man in her room; he wasn't even smartly dressed. Nobody ever came to see her, no, nobody ever came. Except for that one time, but it was long ago and in a different place to this, somewhere where they kept her locked up and where they were always asking questions—questions, questions, questions! But she never let them know, she never answered their silly questions—that would have been too dangerous—and eventually they had given up. Yes, he had visited her there—not this man, but the one who knew everything. He had come to her out of curiosity, not for love. Years ago that was, but she remembered it clearly as if it were yesterday. The doctors didn't know it but her mind was still razor-sharp—how else could she have kept up this pretence?—her memory unimpaired. Oh yes, she remembered the other man
quite
clearly
.

'Ms Cribben, my name is Gabe Caleigh.'

Who? She didn't know anyone called Caleigh. Did she? No, she would have remembered. She wasn't stupid as everyone thought she was. Just because she wouldn't speak, it did not mean she'd forgotten how to. Oh no, that would have been too risky. Did they still hang people these days? She couldn't be sure. And she certainly couldn't ask.

The stranger had made himself comfortable now, he's sitting on the edge of the bed—
her
bed. Who had given him permission? Improper, that's what it was. Most inappropriate behaviour, a strange man alone with a poor defenceless woman who could not even protest! The very idea! It was a good thing the door was open or he might have tried anything. On her bed, indeed! Such insolence, such bad manners
.

She wouldn't let him know she was cross, though. She would not reveal her outrage. She wouldn't even look at him any more.

'Currently I'm living at Crickley Hall with my family.'

Crickley Hall! There it was. He would try to trick her, he'd ask about the house, what happened there…

'Do you remember Crickley Hall, Magda?'

Oh such atrocious manners. He was addressing her by her Christian name as if he were a friend or an acquaintance. Trying to be familiar because he wanted to ask her questions. But no, she wouldn't be tricked, she wouldn't speak to him, no, she'd not say a single word. He wasn't even English, he was what was commonly called a Yank. The Yanks were coming to help Britain fight the Germans. No, no. The war had ended, hadn't it? It was over a few years ago. Ten? Fifty? A hundred? It was a long time since, if she remembered correctly. And she did remember correctly, didn't she? Yes, she did, more than anyone else would ever know.

'When you were in your thirties you lived in the house called Crickley Hall with your brother, Augustus Theophilus Cribben.'

He knows something! He knows something about Augustus and he's trying to trick me into telling him about what happened that time in Crickley Hall. That horrible night when the river broke its banks and the river beneath the house rose up through the well. She had escaped just moments before the flood had come, when Augustus was—no! She must not even think of it! Her heart was pounding and he might hear it. It would give her away. She must calm herself, reveal nothing in her expression. 'That the time may have all shadow and silence in it.' Shakespeare wrote that. See how acute her memory was? After she had been found the next morning, they had explained what had befallen Augustus and the children—what they
thought
had befallen them—but she had not betrayed herself, she had not shown any emotion, even though inside she had been devastated, her heart and soul left raw and damaged. She had been cunning, though: she had pretended to be in deep shock. No, that wasn't quite true—she
had
been in deep shock—but she had fooled them all, the doctors who had examined her, the police and the various officials. Even the pious prig, the Reverend Rossbridger (yes, see how sharp her memory was?) had been duped when he had come to the hospital, pleading with her to save her brother's righteous name (and, of course, his own by association). He had wanted her to refute the outrageous but necessarily covert report and the rumours that followed it, stories of how Augustus had shut the orphans in Crickley Hall's cellar on the night of the flood. Surely Augustus would not have acted so wickedly, Rossbridger had pleaded. The guardian has cherished those unfortunate children. Certainly he was firm with them, but he was loving also, and taught them the way of the Lord. Speak out, dear Magda, the old fool had begged her, defend your brother's honour. But she would not speak out, the truth would only defile Augustus's good name even more.

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 teacher, so obviously you're a 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 a tad 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.'