The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Burning Chair Limited, Trading as Burning Chair Publishing

  ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Did You Enjoy This Book?

  Historical Notes

  A Few Tudor Properties with Identified Priest Holes

  Other Tudor Houses to Visit

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About Burning Chair

  Other Books by Burning Chair Publishing

  THE CURSE OF BECTON MANOR

  Patricia Ayling

  Burning Chair Limited, Trading as Burning Chair Publishing

  61 Bridge Street, Kington HR5 3DJ

  www.burningchairpublishing.com

  By Patricia Ayling

  Edited by Simon Finnie and Peter Oxley

  Book cover design by Burning Chair Publishing

  First published by Burning Chair Publishing, 2021

  Copyright © Patricia Ayling, 2021

  All rights reserved

  Patricia Ayling has reserved her rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses,

  places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of

  the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is

  purely coincidental.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any

  form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

  photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without

  written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-912946-15-0

  ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’

  Exodus 22-18

  Chapter One

  1957

  I knew nothing of the original family who had lived in the old Tudor manor house on the edge of Derbyshire. Except that, according to my Uncle Charlie, the house was said to be haunted.

  I didn’t believe in ghosts. The house and whoever lived in it was of no interest to me; in fact it sounded like a monstrosity. At nearly sixteen, and in a school where I was perfectly happy, I wanted to stay where I was. I didn’t want to move house; and definitely not to a run-down pile in the middle of nowhere.

  As we approached the small village of Becton in my dad’s battered old Morris Minor, the exhaust labouring as it fought its way up the hill, I noticed only a few small houses, a couple of little shops and some old cottages; a village long gone to sleep.

  ‘This must be it.’ announced my dad, suddenly driving even more slowly. We entered a narrow track, rather like ones usually saved just for tractors, and came to a stop. ‘Oh my God,’ he half muttered as part of a large dark building came into view.

  After getting out of the car, I stepped out into the sultry still heat of that day in July 1957.

  My younger sister by two years, Annabel, was eager to keep up as we walked to a rusty iron gate just a couple of yards from where we had parked. The dirt track was lined with laurel hedging, but the gate stood in the centre of a clearing wide enough for a vehicle but extensively overgrown. Annabel ran ahead and pushed at the gate, which creaked before almost falling off its hinge. The remaining walk, about forty or so yards down a gentle slope, was through tall willowy grass. Spiky weeds partially hid an upturned pram, with only three rusty wheel rims.

  There it was, dismal and derelict. A manor house, built in 1593, for God’s sake. We just stood and stared.

  The rotten front door had some weather-worn initials above it; maybe a letter “H”. It was hard to tell.

  Filthy windows, three sticking out from the roof, were framed with sheets of grey silk-like cobwebs; thick in each corner, years of spider work. I brushed away troublesome flies while feeling not the heat of the day, but the heat of sheer anger and frustration.

  Mum and Dad were waiting for the solicitor who was coming to give us the keys for our first viewing.

  Becton Manor had been empty for years, but my Uncle Charlie, a war correspondent, had bought it in 1940. Although he survived the war, he fell ill while working in the Far East: some kind of dysentery. He had lived in it for a short while but was concerned about strange ‘goings-on’. My mother of course, chose to disregard that knowledge. She, the new owner of an Elizabethan manor house, would be the envy of all her friends.

  I loved our old house. This can’t be happening, I remember thinking.

  Twisting her index finger around her long dark curly hair, Annabel twitched her nose before announcing, ‘Gran says old houses give you an aura.’

  ‘An aura?’ I teased her. ‘What, you mean ghosts and ghoulies and stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I remember thinking it might mean bleak and dark, or a disappointing feeling. The result of those strangling weeds, ugly nettles, and thorny shrubs failing to hide that upturned pram. As we walked towards the side of the house, empty tin cans emerged among mysterious bags of rubbish.

  I kicked one of the old tin cans—hard—away from the edge of the overgrown path. Mickey, our old but active Golden Labrador, took chase. No. An aura was something special. Becton Manor was not.

  Annabel tutted. ‘It’s no good, Tom, being miserable. You’ll soon be sixteen. You could get a job. Down the coalmine or the steelworks. Not bad money either. That Janet James’s dad works down the pit and she has loads of posh clothes and they bought a telly not long back.’

  A good idea: get a job with a wage. Get away from all the jibes about not doing homework, not washing properly, picking my spots and growing too quickly out of trousers costing a fortune. Oh, and taking too much notice of girls. That last one always surprised me because, in my opinion, I simply avoided them. They didn’t seem to like looking at me either.

  Anyway, money would come in handy; although it might take a while to save up and get away from this monstrosity.

  The click-clacking sound of my mother’s black patent shoes broke my train of thought. I watched her excitedly peering through windows while adjusting her little blue hat.

  ‘Come on, Albert,’ she demanded. ‘Mr Easton isn’t due for another five minutes. Let’s have a quick look round. Oh, this is wonderful, so old. All ours eh? Oh you can see from the style that it’s definitely Elizabethan. We can do so much to it: just look at all the potential. I can’t wait to get the keys. Oh, Albert, I’ve always loved history and now this is mine… Ours.’

  Dad surveyed the weeds with disgust and his expression got wor
se as he spotted the eaten-away masonry and rotten window frames, battered by centuries of relentless winds and rain. I could tell that he certainly didn’t agree with Mum.

  ‘Oh, of course. Yes dear, lots of potential.’

  I laugh now, when I think of all the times Dad agreed with Mum just to keep the peace. It exasperated me then, but it was at that point that I realised his long time limp, caused apparently by trapped shrapnel in the Second World War, was exaggerated in times of stress.

  Becton Manor was a big project and probably after his long shifts working at the local lead mine, far too much work for him, but he would do anything for Mum.

  Just then we heard a car pull up on the track. ‘Oh, that’ll be Mr Easton now. Shall we go back, Albert and meet him?’ Mum reminded me of an excitable little girl.

  ‘Yes dear.’

  Mr Easton was a short stocky man, aged about fortyish, who gave us funny looks as he walked over. We were introduced by my effervescent Mum.

  ‘Oh hello, children.’ His smile wasn’t genuine and I didn’t like him. ‘You have a lot to do here.’ He sort of smirked, his eyes briefly scanning my parents up and down as though he was judging their ability to tackle such a large project.

  ‘This place has not been inhabited since…well before the war,’ he continued. ‘You need to check that financially it is an affordable project for you. It will need some heating, but I’m afraid the electricity won’t yet be connected. This is a very rural area, you must understand. Anyway, I have the keys but you must expect the door to be warped. I think it was replaced at the back half of the last century, as were the windows. They’re not original lead, of course.’

  As he fumbled with the keys, I saw his face transform, rather like a plump tomato and his chest was heaving up and down with frustration.

  I heard Dad whisper to Mum: ‘That man sees himself as superior. Insinuating we have no money to put things right… Bloody cheek…’

  ‘Shh…’

  Mr Easton found the correct key and pushed hard on the door with his broad shoulder until, with a creak, it opened a couple of feet before it got stuck again. He was beginning to sweat and stank of alcohol mixed with body odour.

  We entered a large hall. A damp fustiness hit us as we walked in and around the space. The lino on the floor was cracked, and wide stairs led to a galleried landing off to the right.

  ‘We can’t go upstairs yet,’ Mr Easton said. ‘Too dangerous I’m afraid.’

  I looked up the stairs and could see lots of holes and splintered wood. I reached out to grab the bannister but it shook with the slightest touch. Mr Easton glared at me and I remember thinking he looked like Joker in my Batman comic.

  There seemed to be so many doors. The one on the left led to some sort of sitting room and the bigger room on the right was perhaps used for dining. Both had huge, dirty fireplaces. The dining room one was an inglenook. Annabel went to stand in it and we giggled, much to the solicitor’s annoyance.

  There was a small passageway the other side of the staircase which led to a large room, and Mr Easton hurried on, like a little kid needing to be in the lead. He stood in the doorway. ‘This room was the scullery.’ Another false smile.

  It was a long room, the full length of the house with a dining area on the left and kitchen on the right. Old French windows opened out to…well…a jungle.

  I tried to open them but the glass frames rattled, they were so loose.

  ‘Don’t touch those, sonny.’ God, he was so pompous.

  We then entered a storeroom on the left, adjoining the dining area, before he led us to a back yard. Here is when Mr Pompous fell from grace. While showing us the outside loo, which was a few paces along the yard, he marched into the thickest cobweb I have ever seen.

  What followed was a slapstick comedy performance far exceeding that of Charlie Chaplin. Watching this superior being throwing his arms about and shrieking like a banshee brought a howl of laughter from Dad, who, when noticing the glare of Mr Pompous, promptly cleared his throat and apologised, looking down to hide his grin with his hand.

  The solicitor regained his composure. ‘One other thing for which you will be pleased: it’s summer. You have the outside lavatory, but there is no bathroom.’

  He looked at us with arched eyebrows to gauge our reactions. ‘That will be another expense for you. There is a cesspit towards the bottom of the garden. We’ll walk to it. This will need to be pumped out quite frequently… You don’t want rats, after all.’

  I knew those last words would be by far the most irritating for Dad. He hated rats.

  ‘Huh’. By this time, his limp was massively exaggerated, his right hip was sagging to one side.

  ‘Don’t limp, Albert. Everything will be fine,’ snapped Mum, but she was looking at me. ‘And don’t you look so glum either. Come on.’

  Just like my mother when she wants her own way. Her voice crisp, everybody gets it in the neck. Dad of course was limping on purpose to attract attention and I purposely made glum faces just to annoy her. Thrusting my hands in my pockets I slouched, cursing the thorny sticky brambles, bees, willowy weeds, and most of all that snob showing us around this monstrosity. I was suddenly bored.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Puffing, I stood still and let them all carry on to the bottom of the jungle. The air was humid.

  I turned to see the back of the house. It looked huge.

  So many bulky chimneys. A very solid, wide stone wall at the left side of the house looked strangely out of place, the rest of the house being mainly brick. It took up almost the whole of the wall until it tapered towards the eaves, becoming a majestic chimney.

  Then a shadowy flicker of a movement in an upstairs window caught my attention. A face—a small face, I was sure of it—disappeared as quickly as it came. A trick of the falling light?

  Motionless, I concentrated on the window, willing it to return. The whole house turned a soft purple colour as the evening dusk began to drop. It was all so eerily quiet. Maybe it was an aura. I willed the experience to happen again, just once more. I was totally mesmerised; I couldn’t look away from the window. Could someone actually be inside, upstairs? Perhaps squatters?

  The magical silence abruptly ended. The biggest black bird, a raven, stretched its wings directly above me and glided smoothly till it landed on a garden post. A glossy creature with piercing blackcurrant eyes, it looked straight at me.

  I stared back. It didn’t feel like an ordinary bird; it didn’t flinch or even begin to look away, even as I tried to approach it. Then Annabel’s shouting disturbed him. He sprang from the post with a loud sort of ‘prok’ sound. Annabel covered her ears but, instead of flying away, it circled in the air and then came back to swoop aggressively towards us. I ducked hard. ‘What the bloody hell?’

  ‘Hey, less of that!’ Dad shouted back at me. They were all too consumed with the manor house to have noticed the bird, which had settled again on the post to survey us. I got the distinct impression it didn’t want visitors.

  As Dad shook hands with Mr Easton, I interrupted:

  ‘Mr Easton, I think someone may be inside. Upstairs. I saw a face at the window.’

  ‘There’s no one in that house lad, I can assure you. The evening light plays tricks, that’s all.’ He chuckled and shook his head, mumbling as he walked away, ‘Kids’ imaginations, huh.’

  Dad checked everyone was safely in the old Morris estate car. After a few attempts, it managed to choke a sluggish start. ‘Well, a new car is definitely not on the list for a long time. It will take years, and a lot of money, to get this place straight—and that’s just the outside. God knows what the upstairs is like!’

  ‘Stop moaning, Albert,’ said Mum. ‘You were starting to sound positive a few minutes ago. We’re very lucky anyway to have a car at all.’

  Annabel and I sat cramped in the back seat. She shook her head as if to say, Here we go again. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw Dad’s frown. If it’s the car he was worrying about keeping
, he would be upset, especially out here in the middle of nowhere. He would like to keep the car on the road, especially if we were to live here, in isolation.

  He didn’t continue the discussion. There was enough to think about as it was, I suppose. My thoughts were on the shadowy movement in the upstairs window and on that evil-looking raven. The thought of living there suddenly became even more horrendous.

  As the car chugged away I looked back and saw the raven circling over the house.

  Chapter Two

  1597

  The Earl of Becton, William Harrison, was a tall man, elegantly dressed in the style best befitting his status: starched white linen shirts, padded and jewelled doublets and silk hose. His duties today had prompted him to wear his broad-brimmed hat and long slim leather boots. It was not going to be pleasant.

  By his side was his squire, John, who had been in his service for a good few years. John was a more robust man, still tall but stocky; dressed smartly in similar attire to his master, just without the jewels or embroidered cuffs on his shirt sleeves. Both favoured the thick beards and moustaches which were in fashion.

  They had come to understand one another, to appreciate their differences, respect each other’s position in life, and laugh at each other’s jokes and quips. Yet the matters of the times were dangerous. Their conversations were often accompanied by discreet and cursory glances. Spies could be anyone, anywhere.

  Both men fidgeted with their hats as they removed them from their heads, grimacing as they faced the scene before them. John’s usual ever-present grin had changed to a pursing of his lips and a squinting of his eyes. The earl felt his lofty forehead start to dip to one side, but today he knew he needed to be strong and so he straightened his back and smoothed back his hair.

  The dark and wretched cell was filled with the rank stench of blood, sweat, excrement, stale air, and the thick smoke rising from the brazier in the corner of the room. The only light came from the embers, a couple of wall torches, and a dim lantern over the rack.