Several of them, eager for the bonfire, began to shout. One man was heard above the others.
‘We are taking her now. The assizes takes too long.’ There was a chorus of ‘Aye, aye.’
The men looked at one another. The horses were agitated. Griffin had recalled a man once say to him that vigilante groups take the law into their own hands. It was never stopped. He had taken advantage of the moment by reminding the hesitant horsemen of this fact. They had listened.
‘Why should it now be any different?’ he had heard one of the men say to another. ‘We won’t get away from here easily it seems, looking at this lot.’ So be it.
A limp Kathleen Melton was carried outside to the jeering crowd. They started to fasten her slight body to the stake. While they were tying her, Griffin had slipped inside to look for the herb box. In the frenzy of his search he’d knocked over a candle, which had started the fire. He had quickly opened every cupboard and drawer to no avail.
As the increasing heat and flames overpowered him, Griffin ran out, cursing the herb woman.
Somewhere, the priest and those children were in hiding, and they had his money. He was also nervous of the return of the earl’s brother. Gilbert Harrison would scrutinise him and leave no stone unturned in the quest to blame him for the murder of his niece and brother.
*
He gripped Anne’s arm tightly. She tugged it free and turned away, wanting to escape from him and the scene she would never forget. He grabbed her again. She smelled his sickly breath and was held by the steely glare that revealed his sheer dominance.
He spoke directly into her startled face.
‘You must harden your resolve, madam. Listen to me. You must meet me at four o’clock in the morning at the stables. Ged arrives at five o’clock and we need those horses. We will travel to Lancashire, where I can allow my wool business to grow. We need to leave before daylight. Hark, madam. Do you understand?’
Tears surged down her crumpled face. ‘Yes, I can hear you.’
Her head low, she crossed herself. She knew the Holy Father would never forgive her. She made her way back to the house of Margaret’s ageing mother, where she had been made welcome since her dismissal from Becton Manor.
There was barely enough room. The house was tiny but clean, and at least it was a shelter until she would marry Edward Griffin. She didn’t smile about the prospect of that now, just felt trepidation.
Griffin left for the inn to drink some ale. He listened hard to the rowdy ‘witch-hunters’, downing one tankard after another. There was always a buzz in the ale house whenever it was Midsummer’s Night’s Eve.
Griffin felt proud that his actions had saved Kathleen Melton from the pain of the searing flames. He could not afford to get drunk; he had to ensure his escape plan did not fail. The loud words of one broad shouldered ‘searcher’ however caught his attention.
‘He had good strawberries all right, but the ale was evil stuff. What farmer would carry such ale or even strawberries at that time of night in a small wagon on a rough track? That one leading to the old earl’s house…God rest his soul…that is the worse track I’ve ever come across!’
He downed another tankard of ale, then spat onto the reed strewn floor. Others laughed, too drunk to further question his comments. But another comment suddenly alerted Griffin.
‘Our deed is done, lads. Now let’s drink to the searchers up at Becton Manor finding the priest. Drink up, lads!’
Griffin hung his head in deep thought. He didn’t think that the searchers would come on the same night as the burning. So the farmer—or was it the priest?—who had been seen heading for Becton Manor? Pleased he was dressed all in black, he hastily downed the dregs of his ale and left the inn.
Every few steps he looked around. He did not want to be followed. He needed his money casket and the herb box, or his future plans would founder.
He saw the Hall, as a black silhouette against a dark night sky; the moon was a mere slither and the light from bonfires had long ceased.
There were a few dim lights from lanterns within. Could his money still be inside? Would Frances let him in? If necessary, he would have to use force. The story of the farmer in the wagon was going round and round his head.
It must be him. He was desperate to get his money. If Father Peters was at the Hall, he would force him to hand it over. The jewelled box could not be found at the cottage, so the priest probably had that too.
He stopped to listen. The sound of hooves on stone and the barking of dogs was followed by the opening of the front door and a very nervous Frances speaking, but her words were short and muffled. Boisterous searchers forced their way in, one of them yelling orders to search everywhere. He was too late. How can I get my money now?
*
Inside the Hall, Frances protested to the searchers.
‘You cannot come here without Lady Charlotte’s permission, or the earl’s brother, Gilbert Harrison. You are breaching the law!’
Her protests made no difference to the rampaging men. A large burly man with a toothless grin and scruffy beard pushed her to one side.
She steadied herself and ran quickly up the stairs. She did not know what had happened to Father Peters or Jack and Ruth, nor did she know when Gilbert Harrison would return.
He’d told her he had urgent matters with the court, referring to Master Griffin’s conduct. Thank the Lord he would, at last, be accused and would hopefully hang, she thought. But for now, she had to ensure Father Peter’s hiding places were secure.
She ran into the bedroom with the secret panel and placed her rocking chair against it. She sat firmly in it and put her head in her hands. She could hear wood being stripped from the walls, pots and pans being thrown around wildly below in the scullery, then the dining room chairs scraping the floor and doors and windows banging. The sound of thunderous heavy boots now marched across the landing. They were quickly getting closer.
‘Ah, you…wench. Whither the priest doth hide? Tell me now!’
‘There’s no one here, no one. It’s a closed house since my mistress went to London. There is no one here.’
The big man strode up frighteningly close to her face. He had a thick, scruffy beard and smelled of ale and a body unwashed in weeks. Frances gasped in alarm as he pulled off her coif, rose his fat fist in the air and then swung his knuckles down in a powerful strike across her face. She fell to the floor and hid her face with her arms, yelling.
‘There’s no one here, I tell you. No one.’
‘You lie!’ He struck her again, hard, and she slumped to one side. She lay still. Soon, blood began to ooze from her ear.
At that moment, more horses were heard on the gravel outside. The burly man marched out of the room and down the stairs. Gilbert Harrison quickly entered the Hall with his own group of men, demanding answers and ordering them to stop immediately or face charges from the Sovereign.
The big, burly leader gathered the men and faced Gilbert Harrison.
‘We have orders to search this property for the recusant priest. You have no right to stop us.’
‘Indeed I have. This is my house and I am a Protestant, a member of the Queen’s Parliament and of higher rank than you, sir. The man you should be looking for is Master Edward Griffin. He is the murderer of my brother and my niece and is accused of the fraudulent handling of my brother’s accounts. He is out there, in hiding. Find him or face the gibbet yourself.’ He looked at the other men. ‘That means all of you!’
The men hesitated, looking at their disgruntled leader, obviously infuriated by this sudden unexpected intrusion. He had his orders and now it appeared he was to obey someone else. He wasn’t giving up easily. ‘I have my commands, sir!’
‘Well, I am overriding them. Get out of here or suffer the consequences.’
Some of the men, prompted by the uncertainty of their leader, began to leave. They didn’t want to end up on the gallows.
‘You will hear more of this.’ The burly man
said, intent on having the last word.
Gilbert Harrison simply grunted. He shouted for Frances but there was no reply. He took a cursory glance at the damage to the house. How did things get this far, he thought? Frances would have to wait. In the courtyard, he mounted his own horse and nodded to his men to do the same. He wanted to find Griffin.
‘Split up and look everywhere. Meet at the inn at noon. One of you at least should have him! I want him captured but alive, and I have no care how you detain him.’
Edward Griffin crouched outside a window, listening to it all. He looked around him. He must get to the horses, meet with Anne and be on his way, but his money was still inside the house. He must deal with Frances.
In the darkness, he crept stealthily to the back of the house to enter by the scullery. He was dismayed to hear the dogs barking, but thankfully they were tethered. It was just that their din could affect his escape. He recalled the tale of the man in a wagon and hastily looked for signs of it, but he could see nothing. It would soon be dawn; he would need to hurry.
He tried the door. Luckily, it was open. He crept in slowly, looking all around him and listening hard. Planks of split wood were strewn across the hall and some of the stairs had been ripped apart so there were great gaps. He stepped carefully across them. Where was Frances? The door to the schoolroom was open, the chairs and tables askew or fallen. The searchers had been thorough. He thought the priest might be in hiding with Frances, but all he wanted was his money. He thumped an upturned table hard.
The dogs were still ferociously barking and the darkness of night was quickly lifting into a hazy dawn. There was no time to waste. He ran to check the other rooms. The priest and Frances had to be somewhere.
As he looked into the third bedroom on the left of the galleried landing, he saw Frances slumped on the floor. Blood had pooled around her head and was now soaking into the floor. Her eyes were open and fixed.
He ran down the stairs and rushed out of the scullery door…then stopped abruptly, crouching to hide behind a bush. There was a shimmering light behind the stables. He could see the back of a wagon and a flicker of movement.
He muttered under his breath. ‘The priest.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
June 22nd 1958
I could hardly breathe. The air in my room was freezing. I shivered, wanting to bolt downstairs but some invisible force held me rigid in my bed. The boy, about eight or nine maybe, stood only a couple of feet away, staring at me.
Dressed strangely in a sort of tunic and baggy trousers, he came nearer, bending over me so that his face was visible but appeared veiled: white, gaunt and pointed. I remembered the face at the window of my room, when we had first looked round the manor house. This was that face, I was certain. Wide eyes studied me without blinking. I knew my mouth was wide open but I couldn’t make a sound.
He spoke, ‘Oliver?’
‘No…no, I’m not Oliver.’ I was so shocked I could not even swallow.
Then the form melted away. I closed my eyes and opened them again to check if he was still there. I was more disappointed than relieved that he had gone, in whatever form he was.
*
I couldn’t wait to see George at school. Before lessons began, I told him what I’d seen and heard the night before, including the weird dream of an old man saying, ‘I curse thee with the claws of corvus.’
George was grinning. ‘You’re beginning to sound like me, Tom.’
I didn’t care whether I did or not. I felt like we were getting closer to solving the mystery of my house.
At lunchtime, George delved into his pocket. ‘I’ve been to the school library and got this book out.’
‘Raven mythology?’
‘Yes, it says they can represent evil and some people believe they can actually possess the soul of a wicked person. So who do you think that might be, the priest? Think of it, Tom. That bird has been flying around, hopelessly, wanting something he cannot get for perhaps centuries and never dies, because he has been cursed!’
‘Ugh. Imagine how that must feel.’ I was starting to feel sorry for the raven. That was a turn up for the books.
‘So what do we do with a four-hundred-year-old demented and cursed raven?’ asked George.
‘I don’t know. Tonight we’re all going to the hospital to see Dad. Wish I could tell him everything.’
George looked thoughtful. ‘There’s something else you should think about Tom. Remember, you said the boy in your room wore a thick doublet and breeches; quite posh clothes, would you say?’
‘I suppose so, why?’
‘Well, sounds to me like that was more likely to be Oliver, the son of the Earl of Becton. So the other bones must belong to his sister, Mary.’
‘Hmm… Nice try, George, but why did the boy ask me if I was Oliver, if he was Oliver?’
*
At the hospital, Dad was maintaining his own respiration well and had started with rehab. Because of this progress, he was moved onto a general ward.
It was a long, narrow room with high ceilings, huge windows and a big Victorian fireplace in the centre of the far wall. A few vases of flowers were displayed on the mantelpiece. Several beds were placed in two rows, facing each other. Each had a bedside table and was surrounded by a rail which held cream-coloured curtains to use as screens. The sister’s office was tucked in the corner and was the first room on the left as we entered the ward.
The nurses said he had been continually asking to go home, but soon got anxious. We were asked not to tire him at this stage, reminding us that head injuries took quite a while to heal and that he may say or do things out of character.
I laughed. ‘He’s been like that for years.’
Mum did not find it amusing and Gran gave me a look of warning.
He was very pleased to see us and fidgeted to ensure we had a space to sit down. His voice was still a bit raspy, but we were told that this was caused by the tube that had been in his windpipe for so long. It would improve. ‘I keep on asking, Alice, when I can go home. Feel like I’m in a prison now. I don’t get much sleep. Don’t look now, but that chap over in the corner bed starts snoring so loudly the walls rumble. Then, there’s the meals. Oh Alice, nothing like yours. Or yours, Dorothy. Spuds are always bloody cold.’
‘Shh…Albert, they’ll hear you.’
‘Well, it might make ’em glad to get rid o’ me then. ’Ere, Tom, don’t get inviting George’s dad in the house will you? I’ve got my suspicions about him. Don’t ask me why, but somat ain’t right. And another thing, take this stuff back with you.’ He leaned over to his bedside cupboard and took out the box and the chalice. They’re bobby dazzlers Tom, well done…but they ain’t safe here, lad.’
*
It was dark when we travelled home. Mum was pleased we had a car again; the insurance had finally paid out and we could afford another one. It made travel to the hospital much easier. We were all in good spirits now Dad seemed almost back to himself. Mum was worried that he would be permanently suspicious of people thanks to the head injury. I just hoped it wouldn’t make his leg worse or that he might be grumpier.
As we neared the house, we could hear Mickey barking. Mum drew up sharply on the gravel drive. Something was wrong. She threw me the house keys and in the dark I fumbled to open the front door.
Mickey shot out barking, not even bothering to greet us. He ran to the back garden. Annabel and I hurriedly followed him. He stopped when he reached the summer house, near the entrance to the tunnel, excitedly circling and sniffing.
When we caught up, we saw that the corrugated iron sheet over the tunnel entrance had been removed. There was a sound of someone coming up the steps of the tunnel. Surely the priest wouldn’t make that noise? I watched with interest.
George.
‘George? What’s happening? Why are you here?’
Before he could answer, another figure scrambled out, desperate to get away. Mike Thompson!
George was sharp. He
immediately thrust his leg in front of Mike, tripping him up so he fell on top of the iron sheet. Annabel helped George to keep him pinned, but George was yelling and pointing towards the cess pit.
‘Get them, they’re who you need!’ Mickey was already barking and on the heels of the shadowy forms of two men. One of them was helping a third climb out of the cesspit. Mickey, barking then growling, was ready to pounce. The man promptly let his companion slide back into the slimy water and started to run. I ran after him and lunged at his legs, bringing him down. Mickey took over, guarding him.
Looking over to George, I could see he and Annabel were still tussling with Mike who, by thumping Annabel in the face, got away from them. He scurried off like a timid rabbit, with Annabel in rapid pursuit.
‘I’ll get him!’ She was a good runner, always winning prizes at school sports events, and because he’d been hurt by the fall on the iron sheet he was slower than usual.
In the darkness, I could just about make out that Annabel had grabbed him again and, I suppose because of sheer anger at the punch she’d received, was hysterical.
She thumped and kicked him endlessly and even reached for a nearby stick to beat him. She was continually screeching, like a banshee. He was forced to the ground, bringing his knees towards his chest and covering his face.
‘Who said sisters were a nuisance?’ George had joined me but our attention had to be on the escaping men and the one in the cesspit. Mickey had the one on the ground under control but the other was still running, although by the style and speed of his pace, he wasn’t a young man.
‘Quick, we mustn’t let him get away!’ I yelled.
We both ran after him and soon narrowed the gap. The man’s legs were not strong. He was panting. As we got nearer, I could see he was wearing a dark balaclava, but all of a sudden a wild whoosh of water pushed him over.
The Curse of Becton Manor Page 21
