The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  The torturer glanced at them before smiling an evil smile as he turned the handle on the rack, increasing the levels of pain for the skeletal figure of an old man spread and shackled. The chains rattled and the man lifted his head while his spine arched; wispy white hair tumbling backwards, catching the light. His mouth opened to release a feeble shriek, just as his angular bones cracked.

  The torturer, now grunting, secured the tension of the ratchets. Latin utterances of merciful prayer did not distract him from his duties. Again, the old man’s mouth opened wide like a fledgling, his spirit wanting to protest, but his strength had deserted him and his tiny sunken eyes screwed shut. His red belly, bulbous veins and paper-thin flesh swelled, like a woman about to give child. His oppressor grinned and nodded with satisfaction, greasy hair like rat’s tails, slithering into his mouth.

  The earl felt a sudden heat and battled the urge to vomit given that the beast was staring at him, but it was a brief encounter. There was still pain to inflict; still a confession to be made.

  The torturer’s bulky nose twitched as mucus dropped onto the old man’s chest. Perhaps it was the sensation of the moist drops or a dogged determination, but the old man opened his eyes and turned his face towards the earl, who looked at him closely.

  The frailty of this figure had disguised him, but now recognition dawned. This was a priest: a companion of his son’s tutor, Father Robert. Together they helped to plan the construction of the secret hiding places at Becton Manor, his new home. The earl was jolted into decisive action.

  ‘This man has endured enough. You will release him immediately and wait for further orders.’

  The beast squinted, before grunting and turning to wipe his tools.

  ‘Have you forgotten how to address a servant of the Queen of England? You do not turn your back on me. Do you perhaps want to know what it is like to feel your bones leave your skin, sir. It can no doubt be arranged… Well?’

  The torturer, his bandy legs bowed, swaggered as if proud. He slowly wiped the blood from his hands as if contemplating the earl’s next reaction. Yielding was clearly not something he liked to do, but he eventually relented and managed a more humble demeanour.

  ‘Forgive me, my Lord. I will send the old man back to his quarters. I act on orders from my own Master, who is more than satisfied with my work.’

  The earl said nothing but nodded in the direction of the old priest, whose eyes suddenly became lively with fresh hope. He beckoned John to follow him up the stone steps and out into fresh air. He hungered for air he could breathe. Mounting the steps with legs that felt soft and unsupportive, he realised that the foul and ungodly episode had rendered him weak. He discreetly crossed himself as they reached the street. No doubt his reluctance to help the torturer gain a confession would soon be relayed back to the court.

  As John gathered the horses, the earl reflected on the Queen’s insecurities.

  In truth, she was unnerved by the many plots to dethrone her, but his mission to oversee the questioning of Catholics suspected of plotting against her gave him an uncomfortable guilt. Yes, he was well aware of the growing number of Jesuits infiltrating the country using various disguises. These men—of his own faith—were captured, jailed, tortured, hanged, drawn and quartered—or gibbeted on London Bridge—yet, while the Queen of England trusted him, she was vulnerable.

  During their last meeting, the earl had been struck by her sad, shrunken, red-rimmed eyes, set deep in a gaunt and sombre face; her white face paint cracked and dry, a woman with her spirit withering. It betrayed the façade of a ruling Queen in bright silks and heavy jewellery; it revealed her sense of loss.

  In the last few years, he had watched her closely when at court. All her trusted and long-serving advisors had died. New blood at court was new arrogance. She was irritated by the extravagance and pretentious nature of the squabbling courtiers. More often than not, arguments focused on the power struggle between Catholics and Protestants but the irony was, she had been tolerant of the differences; until now. The glory of the defeat of the Spanish Armada was long gone and the execution of her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, had left her morose; intensely tired of conflict and suspicions. She was persuaded, however, to remain mindful of the many plots to dethrone her. Now he could see more than ever before; the peace she yearned for in her old age was not even a dim light.

  In her state of mind, she could easily be persuaded to accuse the Earl of Becton of treason.

  Chapter Three

  1957

  By August, Becton Manor was declared safe to live in. The roof was complete; repair work to the staircase meant it was no longer dangerous and the rooms had been cleared of debris. Now there was the smell of new wood and it was less damp.

  Annabel and I were the first to dash upstairs and see the bedrooms. At the top of the stairs there was a small landing leading to two bedrooms on the left, one at the front and a larger one at the back containing a small fireplace. Now I could see why I thought the front bedroom windows were in the roof: the ceiling sloped so the alcove housed the window. It was the same in the front bedroom of the far end of the galleried landing on the right of the house. Another three bedrooms faced the rear garden, all with fireplaces. The third room along was the room where I had seen the face at the window.

  The last bedroom faced the front of the house with a window in a recess. An odd thing was a sealed cupboard, or a doorway just to the side of this room. Constructed over a step, I assumed it was once the entrance to the attic.

  ‘Good God, all this lot to decorate.’ Dad was on the landing. I didn’t think at the time, but now I understand the anguish he must have felt at the prospect of maintaining this very large property. The constant moaning about the lack of electricity was, I believe, fear. He couldn’t possibly afford to keep this house, a house his dear wife had fallen in love with, and he tried to find as much fault as possible.

  ‘Remember what that damn solicitor said?’ He proceeded to imitate Mr Easton, the pompous solicitor’s voice: ‘You have a lot to do here: this place has not been inhabited since before the war. You should really have enough funds to put things right, but I’m afraid the electricity won’t yet be connected. This is a very rural area, you must understand.’ He sighed. ‘That man was of the opinion that we were just common ragbags with no future or ability to turn this house around.’

  ‘Don’t let that man bother you, Albert.’ said Mum. ‘Let’s go downstairs and I’ll put a pan of water on that old range and get some tea brewing, eh? I brought a box of matches… somewhere…and we have boxes to sit on until the removal men come.’

  The positive thing about Mr Easton was that his attitude had presented a challenge to Dad: We will damn well make a go of it.

  We didn’t get the tea. Almost as soon as we had sat down, the sound of a big lorry on the track made us all leap up and hurry to the door, dad limping and complaining about the door still sticking. ‘This needs a good plane at the bottom if we want to open it properly, bloody thing.’ It made an awful scraping noise.

  ‘At least we haven’t had a new floor put in yet, Albert.’

  ‘Huh? Oh hmm… Another expense.’

  Mickey started barking furiously at the arrival of the three burly removal men. They hurriedly began to unload our furniture.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Winchett? We have a lot to shift here, missus. Damn hot day and all. Better tell us where to put it, eh?’

  Mickey circled the men, eyeing them suspiciously, responding with low grunts and the occasional irritated bark. Mum, looking harassed, removed him to the kitchen where he slumped and then groaned as he slid under the table.

  ‘Now stay there and be a good dog.’

  He groaned as only dogs can do.

  I don’t recall many ‘aura’ moments on moving day; but I still didn’t fully understand the concept. Perhaps seeing the face when it was so eerily quiet was my first perception of anything slightly spiritual in nature. The shifting of all that furniture and noise was defi
nitely not spiritual.

  Allowing Mum to attend to the removal men, Dad said he would see to the tea.

  Before long, the geyser started hissing loudly. Poor Dad, I could hear him moaning while we were carrying things from the van: ‘This bloody thing is about to explode,’ but nobody was really listening to him or caring very much. He grumbled about no electricity. He didn’t want to cope with oil lamps, candles, flint and kindling for the fire. Even though I felt pity, his moans were getting on my nerves and reinforcing that life here was going to be pretty bloody miserable.

  Happily occupied, Mum’s arms were waving about all over the place, directing orders to the removal men.

  ‘Oh, not there, no…oh, oh dear, there’s so many places.’ She giggled like a girl with a big new toy. The sweating men, holding heavy items, glared at her.

  *

  After we finally got a drink of tea, Annabel and I had orders to unpack the smaller items such as crockery and pans.

  I made an excuse that I needed the outside loo. Once there, I wandered down the garden, which was more a jungle than anything else.

  Walking a few yards further, I spotted the old shed, standing back a bit from the path running down the side of the loo. The old shed intrigued me. Broken windows peeped through tall occluding shrubs. As I got nearer I could see it was quite a big building, obviously not used for years. The rotten door, covered in cobwebs, faced the bottom of the garden and, try as I could, it wouldn’t open.

  I looked back at the house, to that window. The memory of the pale face surfaced again. I went back inside the house, making my way to the galleried landing. The air here remained damp and musty, even though new wood had been used to repair the stairs. Mum would come to curse all this cleaning. Cobwebs lingered where spiders soon returned after being disturbed by the builders.

  I turned right at the top of the stairs and made my way to that third room on the left. I looked at the fireplace at the right hand outer wall. It was a dark wooden one in a deep recess, flanked by dark wood panels, interrupted horizontally by a crooked beam, once painted in a lighter colour: green, I think.

  The linoleum, so cracked and black in places with hard-to-shift mould, resembled a mosaic from an ancient monument. I walked towards the window, taking cautious, quiet steps, although I wasn’t sure why. The garden seemed much longer viewed from above and even more jungle-like.

  I was studying the long shed again when a sensation of cold air swept across my neck. My skin tingled and my legs went jelly-like; the way they do when you are stood at a perilous height, at risk of falling. Bloody Annabel, what was she up to?

  ‘Annabel, stop that!’ I said sharply, but before I had time to turn round I spotted her in the garden, playing with Mickey. I turned slowly, to face…no-one. That wasn’t a trick of the light. My hands delved deep into my pockets and the rustling sound of the bag of rock sweets in my pocket normalised the moment. As I took one out the bag ripped apart, spilling the contents all over the floor. One caught my eye as it rolled towards the back of the fireplace, but then it disappeared with a clunk somewhere under the floor.

  Avoiding a dilatory woodlice, I discovered a small misshapen hole right in the corner of the fireplace. Pushing my finger into this hole, I was surprised to discover a metal lever which, when pushed to the side, caused a grating sound next to the fireplace. By repeating the action, the grating happened again, until I saw the wooden panel shifting slightly. Using my shoulder to push the panel, it gave way with a scraping sound to open inwards to a very tiny space.

  ‘Tom, are you up there?’ Dad shouted, making me jump so badly that I banged my head on the panel. ‘I need your help, son, to shift a chest. Can’t expect those blokes to do everything.’

  I pretended I couldn’t hear him and climbed inside the tiny chamber-like space.

  *

  It was full of grit and debris. About four foot up was a ledge to the right, big enough to climb onto.

  ‘Tom, where the hell are you?’ Dad was now on the landing.

  Why can’t I bloody do what I want?

  I quickly climbed back into the bedroom, in time to face him in the doorway.

  ‘About time. I can’t manage these heavy things without help. God, we’ve just bloody moved in case you haven’t noticed. You have to do your bit, Tom, come on lad. Help me with this chest, on the landing.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve just found a secret cupboard.’

  Dad shook his head. ‘Don’t be daft, lad. Shut up and lift.’

  Bent almost double, we struggled with three more chests until all of them were placed on the landing. Then the bombshell. We started to lift mine when Dad announced my room would be the third on the left.

  ‘What? Not that one, Dad. Please. Annabel can sleep there.’

  ‘Why don’t you want it?’

  ‘It’s eerie.’

  ‘They’re all bloody eerie. All right: it’s damp, dingy and huge, but some people would give their eye teeth for this, you know. It’s a rare opportunity…according to your mother at any rate.’

  ‘Huh, it’s rare all right. I saw a face at the window of that bedroom when we came last time and now I’ve just found this secret panel.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A secret panel by the fireplace. I just told you. I’m not being daft. I found it by accident. I dropped a sweet and it disappeared down this hole, but the hole conceals a little lever. Come and look.’

  ‘Faces and secret panels. Ha! You’ve been reading too many scary stories, Tom. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Some of these rooms are far too damp but this one is not so bad. You can swap when they dry out a little.’ Dad opened the window, then turned towards the fireplace to watch me open the panel.

  He examined the narrow chamber. ‘It stinks foul. There’s nothing in it anyway. What did you do exactly to open it?’

  ‘There’s a little metal clasp, inside this hole: look.’ He watched me twiddling in the hole until the panel opened sufficiently for me to push it inwards. ‘My sweet must have dropped below somewhere.’

  Dad appeared intrigued for just a few seconds, glanced quickly inside, looked upwards and all around, then screwed up his face in disgust. ‘It’s just an old cubby hole, badly constructed at that. Didn’t know how to do things properly in those days.’ Exasperated, he sighed deeply, shook his head and threw up his arms in frustration. ‘Don’t get saying anything to your mother about faces, panels and missing sweets, eh? I’ll have to seal that up.’

  ‘I won’t say anything, but don’t seal it yet.’

  He shook his head again, tut-tutting as he left to get more boxes…and he was limping. Oh God, he’d got enough on his plate.

  *

  Our evening meal made me feel like Robin Hood: chunks of bread, large piece of cheese, ham, pickles and spuds. Mum’s turn to complain about the lack of heat from the old stove.

  ‘It took blooming ages to boil them potatoes!’ But as she sat down at the table, her broad smile was infectious. The old table was adorned with lots of tall candles and, I have to say, the memory of it is delightful. To step back in time and feel you are experiencing a part of history, of the way our ancestors lived, gives us a sense of appreciation.

  ‘We’ll just have to manage without electricity; after all, they did it before the war, except posh folk any road, but hey, it looks like it should do in a house like this, all these candles, eh? Very romantic. It smells better too. I feel like I should be wearing a long gown, Albert: one of them with a hula hoop inside.’

  ‘A farthingale, dear.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it Albert: a fathering gale. Funny name.’

  ‘I suppose you’d want me in breeches and wearing a hat with feathers in it, ha.’

  I didn’t think it was funny, but I ate my cold meat and spuds, then waited until they all went back into the kitchen.

  At the sound of dishes clattering, Dad groaning at the lack of hot water, and Mum complaining again about the oven being too slow and old, I took
myself off to explore. Just as I rose from the table, I heard Dad exploding: ‘All right, all right, we’ll get a new oven! I told you, this place will cost us an arm and leg.’ It was a good time to get away; Annabel had already excused herself.

  It may have been the vibration of their yelling, but the gold and cream light from the flickering candles, calm while we were dining, now cast the shadows of agitated fire flames all over the walls. I sensed eyes watching me enter the hall. The only light was from a solitary majestic candle set in a slender but heavy candlestick on a small round table at the bottom of the stairs. To see the staircase, your eyes had to become accustomed to the darkness. The only sound was the ticking of the Westminster clock on the hall dresser. This moment of eerily quiet stunned me. Another ‘aura’. The eyes of many spiders watched me, but why did I think there were other eyes?

  I picked up the candlestick, shielding the flame with my hand, which immediately blackened my vision. I stood still and shifted the candle until I could see a blend of dark patches: the dresser and the spindles of the staircase… and many shadows.

  Then, as if all the doors and windows had been opened, there was a surge of arctic air. It was freezing cold. I couldn’t breathe properly. I heard whispered voices: ‘San…pater…san…pater…pater.’

  They echoed with increasing urgency.

  It was cold. I shivered, but I still somehow mounted the stairs to the landing, feeling each heartbeat as a thud on my chest.

  ‘Who are you?’ My voice trembled. No response. ‘Who are you?’ I took a few more steps but the brightness of my candlelight obliterated my vision. Yet again I looked into utter blackness.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’

  I almost dropped the candle as the loud voice cut through the spell. Annabel, another candle in her hand, was looking up from the hallway, squinting.

  ‘Go back and get more light, will you? I thought I heard someone.’