The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  Father Peters knocked twice and entered when beckoned, noting the serious expression etched on the earl’s face as he did so. Chairs scraped the cold stone floor as they sat, face to face, in the dim light.

  ‘You serve my son well, Father, and his learning is progressing more than I could have hoped for.’

  Father Peters sipped the warm liquid, then nodded while smiling at the earl as if to reassure him he would accept the words to come. When the earl paused and faltered, he responded:

  ‘I understand your concerns, my Lord. My compatriots also hear whispers. The Jesuits are increasing their number, some not as discreet as others, I hear. You remember, Father Owen was captured?’

  ‘Yes… But he was released, was he not?’

  ‘Only following torture and when a hefty fine was paid, my Lord. Alas, I consider it my duty not to cause you a similar concern, or threaten your reputation by exposing my allegiance.’

  The earl nodded but his smile did not linger. He rubbed together the tips of his fingers with his thumb, a mannerism the priest had noticed before when the earl was troubled. Father Peters felt a sudden sadness that the boys’ progress may never be discussed again; on the other hand, he felt a deep hatred for those persecuting recusants. It was against his ethos, but he raged inside for what had happened to his good friend, Father Owen.

  He understood the plight of the Jesuits, the horror of torture and foul prisons, the indignation of the burning of papal documents and images; the absolute denial of the Catholic faith.

  His thoughts were broken by Lord Becton’s question, ‘What will you do, Father?’

  ‘That, my lord, must be kept secret. I will reside perhaps with Kathleen and assist her in her work, gathering the herbs and producing good medicine…and of course, the white powders for the Lady Mary. She uses such a lot of the stuff, eager to be pleasing to the eye and be accepted at the court of Elizabeth. If you do not mind me saying so, my lord?’

  They laughed and the air was lighter. For a moment Father Peters thought it was like old times.

  The earl seemed happy to be distracted. ‘She will need a strong suitor, that one. But how she has grown strong herself, from such a frail child. Do you remember, Father? That frail sparrow of an infant? We almost performed the last rites, did we not?’

  ‘We did indeed, my lord, but aye…she is a determined spirit.’

  A poignant silence. The earl hesitated, as though he was finding it difficult to send Father Peters away. The priest rested a hand on the earl’s arm and raised his head to nod gently in silent resignation.

  ‘Do not fear for me, brother. I understand your decisions.’

  They both rose, but then the earl was startled by the priest’s raucous laughter.

  ‘I have to admit, my lord; being rather stouter than Father Owen, the thought of me trying to breathe within those tight spaces he devised was filling me with dread. So you may have done me a service.’

  ‘I will make sure you have money, Robert, to sustain you whilst you seek further duties.’

  ‘No need my lord, I will fare well. I have always been of a resilient nature. If I was a pauper, I trust you would assist me, but my treasures within these walls is our holy secret, our sanctus occultus. If you are in agreement, they can stay here.’

  There followed a slight pause, before the priest looked quizzically at him. ‘I do have a question.’

  ‘Ask it.’

  ‘Who will instruct the boys? They are doing so well in their studies. And I was right, my Lord: Jack’s presence yields much from young Oliver, mind and heart.’

  ‘Yes, I almost forgot. I heard of a young man, new to the village. His name is Master Edward Griffin.’ He has good references; being of the new faith, we will need to be discreet, but he will not reside here. I would appreciate it if you could meet with him to discuss your lessons with the boys. He will come in the morning at ten, after he has met the boys.’

  ‘As you wish. We will remain good friends, brother. You cannot get rid of me completely.’

  The spontaneous laughter and intimate hug that followed was a testimony of the trust between them.

  Father Peters opened the door, turning back slowly, to face the earl. ‘Sanctus Occultus, my lord.’

  The earl forced a smile, before the door was closed. He felt uneasy but more than that, despised himself for his dishonesty. Father Peters was an honest and loyal man.

  He frowned. Nothing had been said of the priest on the rack.

  The immense guilt he felt choked him, but he couldn’t admit to his inability to save the old man or give Father Peters any more sadness

  *

  Master Griffin was indeed young and of very smart attire, which seemed in tune with his air of superiority. His dark squinting eyes belonged to one who enjoyed devising schemes, Father Peters thought, as they eyed each other on that first meeting, the air thick with mutual suspicion.

  Griffin held his shoulders back and his chin seemed permanently lifted, as if to unnerve all those who dared to face him. Father Peters, believing that first impressions were very important, was disappointed with the meeting.

  Introductions were congenial enough but Master Griffin immediately took charge, beginning to inform the priest how the boys were to be educated by him.

  Squarely facing Father Peters, he raised his chin further.

  ‘I am of the opinion, sir, that each boy has received too much leniency. Good manners is one thing, but their learning and character I find to be somewhat weak. With respect, perhaps your approach has lacked robustness. So far, I found their knowledge of the subjects they need for university rather piecemeal, I have to say. Of course it doesn’t matter about the whipping boy, but with regard to Oliver, whose years have passed ten, I have much to do. No matter…with rigour, this can be achieved and he will excel, I am sure. You have no call to look disappointed sir: the basics are there and I have after all only seen them for a few hours.’

  Father Peters gave him a cold stare.

  ‘With respect sir, young boys need peace of mind to study effectively. Without this, they may not hold information for very long or be interested in their learning. They learn from each other. Jack has never needed the birch.’

  Master Griffin was quick to respond. ‘Hmm…I find discipline to be an essential tool: strong discipline and commitment. I pray it is not too late to instil these virtues!’

  Father Peters chose to hide his disgust of this arrogant, despicable man. He calmly decided to say nothing further regarding the boys. ‘I am late for another appointment, sir. I will bid you farewell…please try to heed my words.’

  Father Peters left the room with a heaviness he had not expected. He looked up towards the schoolroom, not daring to say goodbye. Another time perhaps. He was afraid for Jack. This new man’s heart was a cold rock.

  *

  The schoolroom was at the end of a small corridor at the top of the stairs. The corridor branched left, leading to the front of the house where there was a guest bedroom and a small library. The family bedrooms were situated on the left side of the galleried landing and they all faced the back garden.

  Frances the housekeeper, Anne the governess for Mary and Ruth, Margaret the cook, and Father Peters had rooms in the attic; Frances, had her own small sitting room downstairs. The old gardener Ged and the stable boy Henry came in on a daily basis, along with two other scullery maids. All lived in the village.

  Frances and Margaret watched Father Peters as he walked along the quiet village path away from the house, his paltry belongings slung over his shoulder. His head was hung low as if he were deep in thought. They looked at one another and shook their heads. Neither had taken a liking to the boys’ new tutor.

  Chapter Six

  1957

  I well remember my first night’s sleep at the manor house—or should I say, attempt to sleep. I couldn’t get the scenes out of my head: the shadowy face at the window, the anxious whispers on the galleried landing, incessantly resonating, ‘
San Pater, San Pater.’ ‘San Pater, San Pater…’

  What did they mean? Who had spoken them? Ghosts did not exist, so was it the wind? But then again, it wasn’t a windy night at all; and anyway, even wind can’t whisper like that.

  Mickey had growled on the landing, but then he was whining just before I saw him backing off. He only did that when he was afraid or anxious. So what exactly had he seen? When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he ran immediately to hide under the table. I’d heard that dogs have a kind of sixth sense: they see, hear and feel things that humans never do. Perhaps Mickey could sleep up here in my room. I stared at the panel, worried it might suddenly open and, looking at the window, I remembered the cold breeze on the back of my neck. Every time I closed my eyes there was a sense of someone approaching me so I quickly opened them again. God, I hated that house.

  A whole week passed with no further strange events.

  Life for us all had taken on new routines.

  I would soon be starting a new school, for just one more year, although it hardly seemed worth the effort. I could get a job now, without sitting exams and enduring boring lessons. Mum and Dad wouldn’t hear of it, though.

  My old school was too far away and Dad insisted this new one was even better. The thought of new people made me nervous; kids always look suspiciously at new arrivals. I’d seen it at my old school and was ashamed to admit that I had been a bit of a bully myself to one of the bright sparks.

  I wouldn’t be seen as a bright spark or swot, as my mum would say. I would more than likely get teased for my spotty skin.

  Gradually I slept without constantly opening my eyes to check who might be in the room but I did demand that the rocking chair in the corner of the room was moved. I could not look at it without imagining an old woman sat in it.

  ‘Tom, I’m not doubting what you think you see lad, but old houses do sort of change the way we dream, I reckon.’ Dad was unconvincing.

  Mum shook her head. ‘All right, all right, I’ll put it back in the cellar, where I found it, and get you a lamp. Tomorrow we’ll have electricity.’

  Dad grinned. ‘Don’t you want the chair, Alice? Shall we put it in our bedroom?’

  Mum looked embarrassed, ‘Err… No, there’s no room.’

  Dad smiled and winked at me.

  The lamp was comforting. At least I could see what might be going on. The flame threw eerie shadows but the light was welcome. No one would come in the room if it was light, would they?

  *

  The following day was Saturday, and I slept late. I was woken by the sounds of digging. Looking out of the window I saw Dad, spade in hand, busy digging by that shed. He hated messy gardens and had decided to clear all the overgrown shrubs hiding the shed.

  I watched him for a while until I got distracted by the sound of men’s voices in the hallway. They were from the electricity board.

  I heard clomping on the stairs, before someone knocked on my door, opening it and peering in.

  ‘Hello there, you can finally have some lighting in your room eh? Name’s Harry; you’re Tom, right?’

  I nodded. After the quick introduction, he started to pull up the floorboards, before looking positively disgusted.

  ‘Cor blimey, a weird smell under these floorboards. A very old house, though. Some people say this house has buried treasure, y’know.’ He laughed. ‘Haven’t you found any yet?’

  At that moment, Dad shouted from the hallway.

  ‘Tom, will you come down please? I have something to show you.’

  I looked at Harry.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, lad. I have work to do.’ Out in the garden, Dad showed me a few horseshoes and parts of bits and stirrups that he had dug up.

  ‘Perhaps the shed was built on the site of an old stable, eh? I’ve been digging for hours; why don’t you have a go and see what you can find? I need something to eat and just to check on the electrician. Mind that damn cesspit though. There’s no lid on it yet.’

  So that was the plan. Get me to carry on digging, or maybe he didn’t want the electrician distracted. Well, might as well make an effort, I supposed.

  I dug deep, in search of any more clues to this house, until my spade hit something hard but shiny. A cylindrical piece of metal glinted in the sunlight. I cleared away the soil from around it to discover it was more like a goblet. Rubbing it, I noted inscriptions around the top but, as I stood up, that damn raven swooped out of nowhere, squawking. It actually swiped it up in his beak, like a demented magpie. A few yards on, he dropped it.

  Mickey was running across the garden, chasing a ball that Annabel had thrown in the same direction, as the bird dropped the goblet.

  ‘What are you looking for? Mickey’s got his ball.’ Annabel was watching me.

  ‘No, I wasn’t looking for Mickey’s ball.’

  I was disappointed not to find the goblet—the bird had definitely dropped it—so I went back to my room in frustration. Harry was still busy wiring but looked up when I entered:

  ‘There’s a big garden out there, Tom. I was just asking your dad if he wants any help with tidying and all. I’m a bit of an amateur but willing and able.’

  I became suspicious. Maybe Harry’s interest wasn’t in the garden, but buried treasure.

  *

  Everybody was getting on my nerves. I needed some air and so I strolled down to the village shop to buy stationery for school. It might please Mum to know I was being constructive. It turned out to be quite a walk, but I needed it to do some thinking.

  The shop assistant was a tall thin man, probably in his early sixties.

  ‘Not seen you around these parts. Do you live round here?’

  He had a friendly smile, so I told him about Becton Manor and that I’d never wanted to live there. He was all ears, so I carried on with my account of the eerie goings-on. He didn’t laugh, or tell me I had a wild imagination. He believed me. After I finished, I thought he’d think me quite daft but he leaned over the counter closer to me.

  ‘I know exactly where you live… I had a friend who lived there, when I was a kid. Born and bred in this village, as I am. Then…his folks couldn’t stand it anymore. He used to say there was a ghost there, walking about in the garden, maybe a priest. Anyway, some apparition always in black.’ He grinned. ‘Funny thing is…whenever he appeared, so did a big black bird; you’re right, a raven it is. Did a lot of squawking and local folks say the bird is evil. It was worse when the priest and the raven were seen together; not sure why. So don’t go near him if you see him, just in case. Don’t want to frighten you, but some say he can peck your eyes out easy, if he so wished. People say something very tragic happened.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was hundreds of years ago, of course. Every year, there’s some kind of rumpus in the early hours of Midsummer’s Day. Something to do with that raven hating the priest. So bad it was, the family used to move away for a week. They thought they could put up with all the other stuff—whisperings mainly, but nothing that bad—the rest of the year. Nothing ever hurt them: it was just all a nuisance, they got used to it. Laughed at it. And anyway, they believed there was some hidden treasures there: you know, from the times when Henry the Eighth sold off all the wealth of the monasteries. Legend has it there’s a stash at up there but nobody’s been able to find it.

  ‘Anyway, my mate’s family had enough and made plans to leave. Not many stay in that place. It’s been boarded up more times than it’s been lived in, I can tell you. They call it the old legend of Corvus. That’s Latin for raven. They say he protects the place, like the ravens at the Tower of London. Always there, flying around protecting the place from God knows what. In fact, for several years the house has been called ‘Corvus Manor’ because that raven owns it really’. He chuckled. ‘What’s your name by the way? Mine’s Mr Haslam. John Haslam.’

  ‘Tom.’ We shook hands.

  I thought about what he’d said and how conceivable it was that the bird thought he owned th
e house.

  He continued. ‘There’s a challenge for you in that house o’ yours. My friend thought if he could lift the sadness by solving the mystery, all would be well again. Troubled souls, that’s all: just troubled tormented souls. A legend, an old legend.’

  The man’s words echoed in my head.

  *

  What exactly happened? Was it true that no family could live in the house? Why was that raven always hovering? Could it be true that there was the spirit of a priest and he and the raven disliked each other? And what was all that about Midsummer’s Day and a stash of hidden treasure? Mr Haslam was certainly interested in that.

  As I neared the house, Harry was driving away. He waved to me. I really wasn’t sure about him. His permanent grin was too sly and, just like the bloke in the newsagents, he seemed too interested in the house.

  ‘Is that you, Tom?’ Mum shouted. I hurried excitedly to the kitchen to tell her what I’d found out.

  ‘The shopkeeper in the newsagents used to be friends with a boy who lived here. He said there’s a ghost here and that frightening things happen right here on Midsummer’s Day. So scary, the boy’s family moved away!’

  ‘Tom, enough! You’re talking so quickly you’re making me dizzy. There are no such things as ghosts and I don’t want to hear anymore, is that understood? No more talk of ghosts or weird things; it’s just a very old house and you’re simply not used to it, letting your imagination run all over the place.’

  Why couldn’t she listen to me for once? No wonder I was always being accused of being sullen. No one ever listened to me. Why couldn’t adults listen to kids properly, for God’s sake? This ‘challenge’ would have to be mine and mine alone. I would explore, all by myself.

  Running back up the stairs, I wanted badly to get into the secret cupboard and explore the ledge on the right. Must be getting the hang of the lever to the panel, I thought, as I was much quicker. I got a small footstool from Mum’s room to help me up.