The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  The earl hung his head low, but Lady Charlotte now released some pent-up emotions and sobbed, putting her head in her hands as she sat down again. Her words were fearsome for Kathleen.

  ‘This is your doing, Kathleen, giving my daughter this poison!’ Lady Charlotte’s hands slapped her sides as she viciously turned on the herb wife. ‘If my daughter dies, you will pay for this, do you understand? You will pay! You will be pressed or burnt to death, I will not care!’

  She turned to leave the room, her cries now the hysterical shrieks that the family were used to. Anne and Kathleen were stunned into a speechless shock. Frances knew Edward Griffin had encouraged Mary to lick her lips so that they stayed a brilliant shiny red. Could this action have caused the ingesting of the lead? Why would he wish her to be ill?

  The earl instructed them to continue bathing Mary before hurrying after his wife. He suddenly remembered the physician and turned back towards the room to speak with him.

  ‘Please stay. Mary must live; do whatever you feel may save her life.’

  The physician was at a loss. There was no known cure for ingestion of the white powders, if indeed it were true that they cause such a profound illness.

  He looked at his curette, the instrument he would need to cut the skin to bleed her. He stayed, studied her body, monitored her condition and pondered. An hour had passed when he noticed a change. There was a stirring. Mary’s back arched upwards again but then was suddenly thrust forward as she retched severely, before projectile vomiting.

  The physician asked Anne and Kathleen to help him turn Mary onto her side, so the foul liquid drained.

  Mary cried out in pain. The physician interpreted this new incident as a disorder of the digestion or flux. So, in order to show that he was at least attempting to cure Mary, he rubbed the inside of her mouth with ginger, the new hot spice known to be an anti-emetic.

  ‘Now she has been purged we will see an improvement, I’m sure,’ he said.

  Anne and Kathleen remained speechless and horrified. Kathleen cleared up the vomit and wiped little Mary’s mouth clean.

  The physician went downstairs to report to Lord and Lady Becton that all would be well as the body had purged itself, then he hastily announced that he must now leave.

  Lady Charlotte felt relief and wanted to sleep. The whole event had exhausted her and she retired to her chamber, requesting that Frances and Anne share the duty of sitting through the night to watch over Mary. Oliver remained by his sister’s bedside, dumbfounded.

  ‘Oliver, return to your room now. Mary is in good hands with us. We will care for her over the night.’ Frances said.

  Oliver kissed his sister. ‘She will die, won’t she?’ he asked Frances.

  ‘We are doing all we can, Oliver. You need to rest.’ She watched him walk away, his head low. She felt a strong urge to cradle him as she had done when he was a baby. She hated to see him so sad.

  Frances and Anne decided to stay awake together, neither sure of what to do should Mary weaken again; but now she appeared to be sleeping comfortably. Would this anguish ever end?

  Kathleen gathered her medicines, fighting back tears of dismay, unable to treat Mary.

  She gathered her medicines, dismayed that she had not been able to treat Mary; but then neither had the physician. It was the body’s own mechanism to purge itself from this scourge, whatever it had been or, indeed, whatever it still was.

  *

  It was almost midnight. Kathleen hated to walk in the dark. She borrowed a lantern so that she could see her way home.

  The light swung from side to side as she walked briskly along the path through the woods. The sound of cracking twigs and undergrowth startled her from time to time and she increased her pace, looking behind her every few seconds. It’s just animals looking for food, she reassured herself. She hoped that Father Peters was at the cottage with Jack and Ruth, and prayed that candlelight from the cottage would soon be in view.

  She was starting to feel more positive when a sudden movement startled her. A tall figure appeared from behind some trees and faced her abruptly.

  She gasped, stopping dead in her tracks, unable to move.

  ‘You seem in a hurry, madam.’ It was Master Griffin. Her heart sank.

  ‘I must make haste to get home, sir.’ She recovered and walked on, stepping around him.

  Master Griffin was persistent.

  ‘Allow me to help you. Let carry your precious box. You would not want to drop that, would you? It is of great value.’ Kathleen stopped and faced him.

  ‘Master Griffin, I do not require your assistance, thank you. Leave me be, to make haste.’

  But Griffin continued to harass her. ‘I know, madam, what has upset you. I know of Mary’s illness and that if she dies, you will be blamed.’

  Kathleen was irritated by this reminder and that he seemed so knowledgeable regarding the incidents of that evening. She sighed but repeated, ‘Please Master Griffin, just take your leave.’

  ‘If she dies, madam, you are answerable, but I can help you. I will testify that the substances are indeed harmless and you are in no way to blame for what has happened to Mary.’

  Kathleen threw back her head. ‘And what will you be asking for in return, sir?’

  ‘Ha, you are a clever merchant after my own heart. You will give me the jewels from this box. I think that is fair. You can keep the futile stones you use and your silly herb bags, but the jewels will be mine…for my silence and co-operation. Think of it, madam: being scrutinised by another cunning man, one who could order your drowning in a sack, your hands and feet tied together or…even…committing your sweet little body to the stake, to burn as a stuffed pig, your skin blistering, your screams piercing and your lovely hair brilliant red with the flames of the devil, until just your bony skull remains.’

  He grinned at her, adding, ‘Your lovely daughter may also join you, as she is your accomplice, is she not? Furthermore, you enlist the help of a thief: a Catholic priest who resides with you. People will not respect that, will they, witch!’

  Kathleen was now upset, frightened and very anxious. ‘Go away, Griffin. Get away from me.’

  He held her arms tightly. ‘Listen to reason, witch: you are doomed. The cook will testify that you cursed me. Do you recall that, madam…? Well?’ His breath upon her cheeks was foul as he drew closer to her. ‘I can forget that ever happened, but you must agree to my conditions. Do you want your daughter to die?’

  Remembering the scene in the kitchen, whereby she did curse Griffin, made her feel sick. She was desperate to get home and speak with Father Peters. She was deeply afraid.

  He pressed his fingers harder into the flesh of her upper arms and stared coldly into her terrified eyes. She had to get away. Her fingers felt in her deep kirtle pocket for the smooth cloth bag, loosely tied. She forced the tie apart with her index finger plunging it into the small bag, then swiftly pulled out the grinded poisonous herbs. Freeing herself from Griffin’s hold with a swift rising of her right arm, she furiously flung the mixture into his face.

  ‘Aargh!’ The powders entered his eyes and nostrils and he started to cough. He released Kathleen and she gathered her pace. A villager had come out of his cottage when he heard the commotion just in time to see Kathleen scurrying along the path. He turned his attention to Griffin, his lantern held high to illuminate the scene, and shouted angrily.

  ‘What’s going on here? Take your leave!’

  Griffin now started to vomit, steadying himself against a tree. He gasped but found his breath and straightened his body.

  ‘Your neighbour is a witch. She has cursed me and has evil medicine at her disposal.’ His words then became louder. ‘You have to beware of this woman, a servant of the devil!’

  The man watched Kathleen hurry out of sight and then looked at Griffin again, unsure of what to do. He decided on nothing, as Griffin began to stagger back towards the centre of the village.

  Kathleen rushed into the cottage. She
poured out everything to Father Peters, glad the children were asleep. The old priest sat down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘He will not do anything, Kathleen: it would risk his position. You are highly regarded. You said yourself the physician could not cure her.’

  ‘But the ceruse, Father, and the cinnabar. Anne warned me of tales from London, that the Queen had become ill because of poisons in the powders. Lady Charlotte blames me!’ She sobbed into her cupped hands. ‘I wish I had never made it and given it to her, Father. What am I to do?’

  Father Peters stood up and placed his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘We will overcome this evil man who has been touched by the devil. You will see.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  1957

  I think the scariest bit in the tunnel was when I found the silver box. Crouching on those wet rocks, with drips of water catching my hair, the dark presence standing over me was grisly. I glanced at it swiftly, my eyes looking up as far as I dared before looking down again. It was someone tall, but shadows can be tall. Maybe that’s all it was and I simply imagined a hooded figure. It neither spoke nor touched me.

  I crawled back towards the shaft without looking back and swam across the deeper part, the, box tightly gripped against my chest.

  ‘What is it Tom? You look kind of spooked. What’s that under your arm?’ George was too inquisitive.

  ‘I’ll show you when we get back.’

  Annabel couldn’t wait to get out of the tunnel. George climbed the struts after her but, in her haste, she trod on his fingers and then she dropped her torch. I was less irritated. I couldn’t get the dark shape out of my mind. Nothing, or no-one had touched me; but I had felt a powerful presence in that vault. Recalling what Mr. Haslam had said about the raven and a priest hating one another, I could well imagine how horrific their squabbles may have been. When the raven tried to attack me, he could have pecked my eyes out.

  Annabel rapidly escaped to her room but, although George admired the box, he announced that he was starving and I asked him to go downstairs and bring up some drinks and biscuits as he knew where they were kept.

  I sat on the bed and polished the box to reveal colourful and precious gemstones outlining an elongated cross. Originally it must’ve been very ornate and beautiful and it had something to do with the history of this house. Textbooks can tell you about historical facts, but this fascinating object made me aware of the power of the privileged, the quest for extreme wealth, the obsessions and mystical beliefs of the time and then…those who were oppressed and persecuted. Teachers had told us of prisoners being hanged, drawn and quartered, but now, with this box in my hands, I saw them, I heard their cries and saw their guts dispelled.

  Silence. There was an odd feeling of people watching me, there in my own room. Voices were faint but it was as if they were trying desperately to communicate with me. Gingerly, I got a pen from my bedside table and wrote what I heard as best as I could:

  ‘Sancta Pater, Sancta Pater, audi nos, libera nos, et nos cum mater nostra.’

  George came in shortly after, with the tea and biscuits, shattering the aura. I couldn’t hold back the incident with the dark presence looming over me, so I told him. I wasn’t sure I was ready for his babble. ‘You say nothing was said and nothing happened. Maybe you were lucky it was a ghost and not a poltergeist, Tom. A supernatural being supposedly responsible for physical disturbances such as loud noises and objects being moved around, even levitation. They can punch and kick and really hurt someone, if they want to. I’ve read it somewhere…’

  *

  For Bonfire Night, Dad had saved lots of old stuff for us to burn, including a mattress.

  Mum didn’t want to upset the garden. She had planted some bulbs and said she couldn’t remember where, so we would have to go to the field at the other side of the track. There was a small gate and she had seen some boys already stacking wood for a bonfire.

  ‘There’s plenty of room for another bonfire so take your wood and rubbish over there.’

  Mum made toffee apples and parkin as well as baking large potatoes. Dad had reluctantly bought some fireworks including rockets.

  When it got dark we all trudged over, each one of us carrying something, whether it was food or a stool

  The fire soon became a tall bright blaze, wood cracking and spitting, chestnuts roasting around the sides, our faces burning.

  Annabel was whirling a sparkler in the air when, through the star-like twinkling, I saw the silvery shape of a woman with long flowing hair, sort of suspended in the distance.

  ‘Look!’ I shouted to Annabel as I pointed to the woman. Her head followed my gaze but she had gone.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Annabel.

  ‘There was a woman… ‘

  ‘Not again, Tom. It’s a trick of the flames; a bit like when you see dogs and lions in the clouds…stupid!’

  ‘Ha, made you look though.’ I felt like I did when I had discovered the secret panel. No-one would believe me then. I did not pursue it.

  The woman, the dark shape, the box, the voices and the bloody bird, were all running through my head that night.

  *

  The following Saturday, George was coming again. Annabel and my parents had taken a great liking to him, so he was almost like another member of the family and his weekend visits were regular. I was starting to realise he wasn’t very happy at home.

  We waited until my parents left to go shopping in Chesterfield and then the three of us investigated the ground behind the summer house. There had to be another way to access the tunnel. I was becoming obsessed with finding it.

  ‘This is where I found that cup—well, goblet—and I just have a hunch that the tunnel is under here somewhere,’ I told the others. The bending to the left of the tunnel and the estimated length of it indicated that perhaps there was some evidence of it below the ground.

  George did his calculations. He walked from the tall outer chimney over a mound-like stretch of garden and, analysing the hump, decided that was the top of the tunnel. He announced that I was probably correct in my assumptions because the mound ended just feet away from the shed, a short distance from the outside lavatory.

  We dug and dug for hours, but all we found of interest was old fragments of horseshoes, just like Dad had. Daylight was fading fast and the air became chilly, a winter breeze starting to bite.

  ‘I hate early winter evenings. It gets dark too soon,’ George groaned.

  ‘Well, we’ll carry on just a bit longer.’

  Then I saw a light in the house.

  ‘They’re back.’

  It was at that point that Annabel’s spade struck something hard.

  ‘God, what’s that?’ she asked.

  George and I ran over to her. I took the spade and struck the ground again. There was a loud grating sound.

  ‘We have to move all this soil…wait a minute.’ I heard a noise, a loud and constant knocking in the garden. At the same time, an anxious but muffled yelling. Then it stopped.

  ‘Is it the voices?’ Annabel asked.

  I was too interested in discovering what was so hard under the ground that I carried on digging.

  It started again. ‘Listen…stop digging, Tom,’ demanded George.

  But the wind, now whipping around the shed, made it difficult to hear.

  ‘Please help, help!’

  ‘Well, it’s not in Latin this time and it’s hardly whispering.’ said George.

  We crept out from behind the shed. The voice was coming from the outside lavatory and there was a glimmer of light seeping under the door.

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me, there’s a ghost in your lavatory, Tom,’ said George. ‘That’s a woman’s voice. Might be the woman you told me you saw on Bonfire Night.’

  We crept closer.

  ‘Maybe the end of the tunnel is under the lavatory and the woman has just come up to have a wee.’ laughed Annabel.

  George laughed but I just mut
tered, ‘Very funny.’

  We got nearer and listened.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I demanded.

  ‘Who do you think it bloody well is, Robin Hood?’

  ‘Gran!’ We didn’t know she was coming today.

  ‘I can’t get off this seat, Tom. It’s far too low and I’ve dropped me stick.’

  ‘Hold on, we’ll push the door. Heave!’ It gave way and George fell straight into Gran’s lap, having tripped over a torch, its beam directed outwards and then her stick.

  ‘Oh my God…. Never mind… Thank goodness I’ve not done anything smelly and I’ve pulled me knickers up.’

  George, going bright red, looked horrified, but then he saw the funny side and laughed.

  ‘Are you all right, Gran? I’ll get your stick and pick up the torch.’ Annabel was now fussing over her.

  ‘I’ll be fine, I just need a wee drop of something in my next cuppa, that’ll do it!’

  *

  Gran’s my mum’s mum. Her name is Dorothy but she is sometimes referred to as Dot. She’s seventy-five and, since grandad died five years ago, she’s lived on her own. She’s got a council house in Sheffield and she manages all right now, but it took

  her a long time to get used to living on her own with no one to say good morning or goodnight to, share the crosswords, argue about politics and share all the chores.

  Her only ailments were arthritis of the knees that stopped her from getting down too low and getting back up again. She also liked a nap in the afternoons and a tipple of brandy or whisky now and then, which she told people was merely medicinal for her arthritis and circulation.

  The invitation to stay with us was well received and she had only visited Becton Manor briefly, before the electricity was installed and the roof was repaired.

  She was looking forward to a family Christmas and possibly staying longer. If my dad lost his job, she told him she would help out with the bills. Dad was quite impressed with that.