The Secret of Crickley Hall (40 page)

And the trainee teacher, the silly girl who protested and threatened to betray them with exaggerated stories of how the children were treated! Well she had been dealt with and the photograph put away with the other items because the young girl's image served as a constant reminder and Magda did not like to dwell on just how she had silenced Miss High-and-Mighty Linnet. But Magda was too proud of the photograph to get rid of it. It displayed Augustus and her in all their authority, a permanent tribute to their fine achievement and dedication. Before, they had been mere teachers with limited powers, but then the opportunity had come along to become tutors and custodians of eleven evacuee orphans for the duration at Crickley Hall, far from the war-torn city. She and Augustus had been chosen for the post from above all other applicants. No, she could never have destroyed that photograph. She swelled with pride just thinking of it. If only Augustus had not suffered the headaches, the excruciating pain that had him crushing his head between his own hands to suppress it. It was the headaches that slowly deranged his brilliant mind, leaving him with fits of uncontrollable anger. It was the agony of them that caused the insanity.

'Okay, I'm done here. It was my wife's idea to drop by anyway. I didn't expect much, and that's what I got. 'Cept for a slight reaction in your eyes. I caught it twice, just a flicker, even though you wouldn't look at me. Once when I said my wife thought Crickley Hall was haunted, and then again when I mentioned the photograph. Both times it was just a stab of fear. Well, it looked like fear to me. It came and went fast, but it was there.

'Maybe you're trapped inside a world of unresolved guilt, living in a hell all your own. Who can say? If I've got it wrong, I apologize. Didn't mean to bother you. So long, Magda, I hope you really don't remember.'

He was going! At last he was leaving the room. Curiously, she was tempted to break all her years of silence to speak to him. She wanted to defend her righteous brother. And herself, of course. But silence had protected her for a long time now—a century, it seemed—and she was not about to break it for this brazen young man. In truth, she had remained quiet for so long that she wondered if her voice had atrophied along with her tired old body. Damn this stranger, and damn all those others, all those officials and medical people who had tried to make her communicate! There, this man had caused her to curse. But God would forgive her. He had forgiven her for everything else, even the killing of the teacher, because He understood the necessity. God was with her always.

Besides, she hadn't cursed aloud, had she? So it didn't count.

•

Gabe was more disgusted with himself than impatient with Magda Cribben. She may have been one hell of a bitch when she was young, but now she was just a shrivelled-up old lady who looked so frail a sharp sneeze might cause her whole body to disintegrate. In the photograph he'd found she appeared so formidable, with her colourless face and black, shadowed eyes and stiff posture. Now she was a relic of her former self, a pathetic hunched figure whose bone structure seemed to have shrunk beneath her flesh. Yet, oddly, she did not have an elderly person's vulnerability; there was still something scary in her unblinking gaze. Had he really seen a flicker of fear in her eyes, though, or were both times only in his own imagination?

At the door he glanced round for one last look at her: she remained staring at the blank wall.

Well, at least he'd kept his promise to Eve, he thought to himself as he strode out into the corridor.

He had only taken a few paces when the partially open door he and the nurse had passed by earlier swung wider. A thin, brown-spotted arm reached out to him.

'Mister,' a low, raspy voice whispered.

Gabe stopped and saw the same wrinkled face that had peered out at him before; now there was more of it to see. The woman with grey straggly hair clutched a worn pink dressing gown closed tight against her flat chest and he could see the hem of a nightdress hanging low round her skinny ankles and slippered feet.

He drew close and she narrowed the gap in the door again as if fearing he might attack her.

'D'you need something?' Gabe asked. 'Can I get a nurse for you?'

'No, no, I jus' wants to speak to yer.' She had an accent almost as broad as Percy's. 'Yer've been to see her ladyship, haven't yer?' The elderly resident didn't wait for a reply. 'No one ever comes to see her. Got no relatives, no friends either. Give yer the silent treatment, did she?' She gave a sharp cackle.

'Yeah,' said Gabe. 'She never spoke a word.'

'Likes to pretend she can't speak, that one does, likes to play dumb. But I've heard in the middle of the night when everyone's's'posed to be sleeping. Walls're thin d'you see, an' I don't sleep much nowadays. I listen an' I hear Magda Cribben speakin' plain as day. She has nightmares and she moans somethin' awful an' talks to herself. Not loud though, not so the night nurse might come down to her. I can hear all right though. Puts my ear against the wall. Thinks they're comin' to get her, see?'

'Who? The police?' It was a fair assumption if Magda had played some part in the children's deaths. Guilt might still be hounding her.

The woman became tetchy, almost cross. 'No, no, not the police!' Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper again. 'It's the kiddies she's scared of. She thinks they're comin' back to get her for what she done to 'em. She cries out she's sorry, she shouldn't have lef 'em alone. She don't do it fer long, jus' fer a coupla minutes most nights. She can speak all right, despite what they thinks here. I know, I can hear her.'

She closed the door a little more, as if even more cautious.

'An' sometimes, sometimes I gets frightened too 'cause I can hear somethin' else. Soft little feet runnin' past my door an' goin' into her room. Goin' in to haunt her 'cause of what she done.'

It was ridiculous but Gabe felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

47: GORDON PYKE

Loren skipped off the people-carrier, gave a wave to her new best friend Tessa (ignoring the scowl she received from Seraphina, who sat silently but grumpily in the back seat of the vehicle) and hurried across the road to the bridge. She hardly registered the dark red Mondeo parked behind her father's Range Rover and whose driver's door was beginning to open. She was too eager to get out of the rain and tell her mother about Seraphina, who had turned up for school that morning nursing a sore-looking nose and without a word to say to Loren. Loren had expected more trouble from the hefty girl when she eventually returned to class, but Seraphina had ignored her all day (although Loren had caught some dirty looks from her). Loren knew it was wrong, but she felt pleased that punching her seemed to have worked, for Seraphina's intimidation had stopped. Mum would be relieved there was no further problem, though she would hide it, and Dad would be delighted, but he wouldn't show it in front of Mum.

She reached the wooden bridge, rain seeming to
thud
against her woollen beanie, and quickened her pace. Unfortunately, she didn't realize how slippery the bridge's planks were.

One foot slid sharply forward and she went down, her other leg collapsing beneath her, bending so that her bare knee whacked against the wood. She cried out in pain and surprise, her school bag falling from her shoulder, spilling some of its contents onto the bridge.

Momentarily numbed by the shock, Loren was unable to move. She sprawled on the wet boards, her weight on one elbow, eyes smarting with welling tears. Mustn't be a baby, she told herself. Her leg wasn't broken, it just hurt a lot. Looking down at her injured knee, she saw blood beads appearing on its scraped skin. She wondered if she would be able to walk properly. Not far to the house, but she was soaked already. She tried to rise on wobbly legs but found it difficult.

That was when a large, strong hand reached under her shoulder and began to pull her up.

•

Gabe had just come down from the room in Crickley Hall that he used as an office. Earlier that day at the Seapower office in Ilfracombe he had surprised his new colleagues with the news that he had almost solved the maintenance problems of the marine turbine. However, he preferred to work out the details alone, without distractions, and that was probably best achieved from home. He had offered no excuse for his late arrival that morning (after visiting the old folks' home) and none was sought—in any case, as a subcontractor to the company and technically a free agent, he was allowed some latitude, provided he came up with solutions. So Gabe had returned to Crickley Hall mid-afternoon.

In truth, he had wanted to leave early so that he could discuss with Eve his eerie meeting with Magda Cribben. He'd had to phone Eve from the office because his cell phone still wouldn't reach Hollow Bay, although it worked fine outside the area, but it proved difficult to talk freely with co-workers in close proximity. He had told Eve that Magda hadn't said a word to him, that she'd remained silent throughout the visit; he hadn't mentioned the crazy next-door neighbour who maintained that Magda had not lost the power of speech but sometimes spoke in her sleep. As for ghosts running down corridors in the dead of night, well, he thought he'd omit this from his report for now.

Face to face, he told her everything and Eve had become very quiet—if not pale—when he mentioned the crazy woman's assertions that Magda Cribben still had the power of speech, even if it was only when she was dreaming, and that ghosts were also haunting the nursing home. It had all only served to deepen his wife's belief in spirit children.

The engineer had then worked solidly on his design for raising the marine turbine's gearbox and generator above the water level so that maintenance could be carried out using a surface structure and ancillary vessel, and it was late afternoon before he came down again, hungry and thirsty because he had worked through lunch.

He crossed the hall, but before he could enter the kitchen, the loud discordant sound of the doorbell brought him to a startled halt. Through the kitchen doorway he caught Eve's surprised look in his direction. He shrugged and went to the front door to unlock it.

The man standing outside with Loren was tall, at least six foot one or two, Gabe reckoned. The stranger wore a funny little Tyrolean hat with a small stiff feather stuck in its band.

'Delivery of one young lady with a badly scraped knee,' the stranger announced in a deep but friendly voice. Then, smiling, he introduced himself: 'My name is Gordon Pyke. I think I might be of some help to you.'

•

Gordon Pyke had the kindest eyes Gabe had ever seen. They were of the lightest blue and creases—laughter lines—spread from their corners almost to the man's temples. He looked to be in his sixties—late, or early seventies, Gabe couldn't tell—but his long figure looked strong and straight, only a slight paunch bulging against the lower buttons of his waistcoat, which was worn under a brown tweed jacket. An open fawn raincoat hung over both. He leaned on a stout walking stick that favoured his left leg.

When Loren had explained that she had fallen on the bridge and Mr Pyke had helped her to the front door, Gabe had immediately invited him in out of the rain.

Once inside, the stranger had removed his hat to reveal thin grey-black hair swept back over the dome of his head. He sported a small goatee beard, which was also black flecked with grey, as were the thick sideburns that partially disguised the largeness of his ears. His smile was warm, with teeth so perfect Gabe guessed they had to be manufactured.

Eve came out of the kitchen, Cally following, and went straight to Loren. She bent to examine her daughter's injured knee.

'Oh, you poor thing,' she said sympathetically. 'How did you manage that?'

'I slipped and fell on the bridge,' Loren told her, putting on a brave face even though the scrape was really sore by now. 'Mr Pyke picked me up.'

'I'm sure you'll find it's not a mortal wound,' Pyke said teasingly.

'Thank you for helping Loren,' said Eve, satisfied that the injury really wasn't serious.

'You are Mr and Mrs Caleigh, I take it.' The tall stranger looked first at Gabe, and then at Eve. 'Yes, you're certainly Eve Caleigh. The photograph of you in the
North Devon Dispatch
was an excellent likeness. Not all newspaper pictures are.'

'You saw that?' Gabe was both resigned and suspicious.

'I'm afraid so. Not the sort of publicity one normally seeks, is it? But newspapers enjoy publishing such hokum because they increase circulation figures.'

'Is that why you're here?' Gabe suspected they had one of those sightseers they had dreaded on their hands.

'As a matter of fact, it is, Mr Caleigh.'

Gabe felt his heart sink. He would thank the man, and then get rid of him.

'But not out of mere curiosity,' Pyke continued, 'I can assure you of that.' He smiled at Gabe, and then at Eve.

Eve spoke to Loren. 'Go into the kitchen and wait. I'll be there in a minute to clean your knee and put some ointment on it to stop any infection. It might need a plaster. Oh, and take Cally with you.'

Loren limped off, leading Cally back into the kitchen, while Eve returned her attention to the tall man with the nice smile and pleasant manner.

'So you believe all this nonsense about ghosts,' Gabe said when Loren and Cally were out of earshot.

'No. It's precisely because I don't that I'm here,' came the reply.

Gabe and Eve exchanged glances and Pyke gave a short, deep-throated chuckle.

'I came here, Mr and Mrs Caleigh, because I seek out so-called "ghosts" for a living.' He smiled at Gabe's pained expression. 'You might be relieved to hear,' Pyke went on, 'that rarely, if ever, do I find them.'

Gabe shook his head. 'I don't get it.'

'No. Well, as it happens I don't believe in hauntings either and eight times out of ten I find my disbelief is vindicated. There are no such things as ghosts and, if you'll allow me, I'm confident I'll prove to you that this house isn't haunted.'