The Curse of Becton Manor

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The Curse of Becton Manor Page 24

by Patricia Ayling


  ‘Ha! You…you have the audacity to call me a thief.’ Griffin spotted the jewelled candlestick and picked it up. ‘Isn’t this part of the spoils of the monasteries? Eh? The jewels here and on that wretched witch’s box are not yours, but belong to the Queen! You are answerable for your deeds, old man. Your days of secrecy are over. You should have been burnt along with your accomplice, now in purgatory, begging your God for forgiveness. You are not fit to call yourself a holy man!’

  The priest saw a rage in Griffin’s black stony eyes unlike anything he’d ever seen before. The man was a devil. He had to act quickly. He brought up his right arm in a brilliant riposte, knocking the candlestick from Griffin’s grasp.

  Griffin, with equal speed, struck him across the face with the back of his hand. Father Peters stumbled but rose immediately, punched Griffin hard in the stomach and kneed him in the groin.

  As Griffin doubled up in pain, Father Peters made for the chapel door but Griffin, groaning, straightened up and dashed towards the priest. He threw himself on his back, bringing him to the floor again.

  Father Peters dug his elbows hard into Griffin’s body and rolled himself over in an attempt to face him. He was too weak. He saw his staff within reach. Grabbing it, he swung it with an almighty strength at Griffin’s legs, knocking him flat to the stone floor. Griffin yelled but wriggled under the table, pulling down the altar tapestry.

  Father Peters knew this fight would have to end in the death of one or the other of them. He could not allow the discovery of the secret passage. Then Griffin jumped up and, wrapping his large hands tightly around the priest’s neck, he pressed his thumbs into his throat.

  The priest dropped the staff but he grabbed the keys that were attached to his belt and, with his right hand, plunged them Griffin’s left eye, then kneed him in the groin. Griffin doubled in pain as blood surged from his left eye. Father Peters picked up his staff again and, gripping it with both hands, brought it back behind him, ready to deliver a heavy blow to Griffin’s head which was still bent low and facing the ground.

  Before he wielded the staff, he looked down at Griffin, whose punctured eye was full of blood, squinting and demonic. Father Peters gave a beast-like roar before he cursed him:

  ‘Misery will haunt thee, brother, in this life and the next. I curse thee with eternal claws, corvus; thou will never get thou hands on what belongs to me.’

  As he finished the curse, he brought back the staff once more to wield it with force.

  A soft voice from below ground distracted him.

  ‘Father?’

  Griffin, with his one good eye, noticed the hesitation and the slight fall of the staff. He grabbed the priest’s ankles, knocking him over towards the stone altar.

  A cracking sound from the ground could be heard just before the altar began to tip over. Griffin had dodged the striking staff and he rolled quickly out from beneath the collapsing table. Father Peters was slumped across it, blood pouring from his head.

  Shielding his bloody eye, Griffin looked up. There in the darkness was Anne, her arms shaking. She was stood with the heavy candlestick in both hands, high above her head, as if ready to strike a second time. She stared wildly at the priest’s lifeless body, lying still on the crumpled tapestry.

  She shook violently as she watched the fabric soak up the blood of the priest.

  Griffin had no time for emotions. He cursed that he had not got his money and he cursed the commotions in the house, by the searchers. Just for a moment he wondered what had distracted the priest and thought he had heard a sound, but he had no time to investigate.

  ‘Quick, get the horses!’

  Anne remained in the same position, a stunned mute but shaking uncontrollably. ‘Act, woman, act! For God’s sake, we have to leave now!’ He grabbed her. ‘Listen to me! It needed to be done. I haven’t got my money but we have to leave, now.’

  ‘I killed…I killed the priest. I killed Father Peters. Oh Lord, forgive me. Forgive me!’ she wailed.

  Griffin was becoming impatient. ‘Enough…enough of this hysteria! Quiet, woman. Fetch the horses, before that wretched Ged appears. And take the candlestick. Put it under your kirtle. Now, woman!’ Anne could not stop whimpering and trembling but she did as she was told. She must not faint.

  The searchers were still working in the house, but some sounds were those of men outside.

  They had to hurry. The horses whinnied again. Griffin looked up at the house. A man appeared to be looking out of the window. There was candlelight in the room. As he calmed the horses, he gazed up at the window. He hoped and prayed that they could not be seen in the darkness. Anne also saw the man.

  ‘Edward, Master Gilbert is in the house. He will see us.’

  ‘Get on your horse. Now, now!’ a frantic Edward Griffin was shouting to Anne. She obeyed. She would always have to obey, from here on.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In the Early Hours of Midsummer’s Day, 1958

  Mum and Gran didn’t mind George staying over again on that Saturday evening. It had been a long eventful day and we were surprised that neither his mum nor dad had come to collect him. I think they felt sorry for him since the botched burglary, following Arthur’s behaviour and knowing his parents argued a lot. I don’t know to this day if the lack of communication was worse for George than the knowledge of his dad scheming the theft. I wondered if the other men had told their wives what had happened that night, and imagined the after-affects in their homes.

  At almost two o’clock on the Sunday morning, after the police had left, nobody cared about anything but getting to sleep. It was pretty nice though to think we were going to bed rich, after those evaluations.

  Once under my bed covers, I frequently stared at the secret panel or imagined the boy in breeches might appear, but I was so tired this time and my eyes still very sore, that I went straight to sleep.

  I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and along the landing. I looked over at the door just as a tall, broad-shouldered man in a hat and huge boots appeared. He strode over towards the fireplace where a woman sat in a rocking chair: the same rocking chair that had so unsettled me on the first night I’d slept here.

  ‘Where is he?’ the man yelled.

  The woman’s voice cried out. ‘I don’t know, sir. There is no one here.’ I watched in horror as the man raised his arm and struck her.

  ‘NO!’ I yelled, sitting bolt upright. I looked for the man and the woman: no one, just George in the room, stirring in his sleeping bag because of me yelling.

  It must have been a dream.

  It had been a muggy day and it was now followed by a bad storm.

  A great bolt of lightning illuminated the bedroom. Then, as I was just sitting up in bed, a great roll of thunder rumbled above.

  Rain lashed the window. We had never bothered to close the curtains, going to bed so late. Down by the summer house, I saw a light flicker. Who would be down there with a torch, this time of night, in this weather? Not another burglary, surely?

  George picked up the torch. We always had one, in case we wanted to use the chamber pot at night. He opened the window of my room, flinching at the onslaught of rain belting him and bouncing off the window sill. The shaft of his torchlight scanned the garden from left to right. He saw no one. ‘Are you still asleep and dreaming, Tom?’

  ‘No, I am fully awake.’

  The words had hardly left my mouth, when the sound of doors being opened and immediately slammed shut again, reverberated throughout the house. This was scarier than thunder. Someone or something was inside our house.

  ‘What’s happening?’ a troubled Gran asked as she hobbled from her room, walking stick in hand, not yet focusing, as she stood in the bedroom doorway.

  As we went along the landing, we could hear pots, pans and plates being smashed in the kitchen. Mickey was barking furiously. Please don’t hurt Mickey, I thought. By now, Mum and Annabel had come rushing out of their rooms.

  The thunderstorm
outside was relentless.

  What was happening within our walls was worse.

  ‘There must be some windows open somewhere,’ Mum shouted as she followed us down the stairs, but this was caused by much more than an open window. A storm of a very different nature was at full throttle inside our house.

  Annabel hovered on the landing, panic-stricken. ‘Oh no! Is it burglars again?’

  Outside, the rain was ferocious, but it was difficult to distinguish the sound of it on the windows and the sound of continuous smashing of objects, doors slamming on the inside and constant banging that panicked us.

  The scene became horrendous when the kitchen door flew open and a multitude of pots and pans whizzed through the air by some unbelievable, sinister force.

  ‘Oh my God, Oh my God! Get back, get back up the stairs!’ Gran yelled, but not being able to run she held on to the table in the hall. Despite her instructions, we all came downstairs by holding tightly onto the banister. Gran’s support table flew off her hand and into the air. She grabbed the spindles.

  ‘Poltergeists!’ yelled George.

  It wasn’t just pots and pans, but buckets, brooms, cups and plates from the Welsh dresser, coats and umbrellas and smaller items like notepaper and pens. They flew through the air, propelled by this remorseless strength.

  Some china smashed against the walls of the hallway, crashing to the floor or even into each other, landing in hundreds of shattered pieces. The debris was now suddenly illuminated by another flash of lightning.

  Annabel was crouching low, still on the landing. Mum was holding onto Gran and I was trying to get across to the kitchen. I couldn’t see Mickey. I called him several times until finally he appeared but ran back into the dining room, to seek refuge under the big table. At least that wasn’t moving. Annabel was shouting, but was hardly audible.

  It lasted about five agonising minutes. Everything that sailed in the air, dropped to the floor. Complete and unbelievable silence. We crept out one by one and beckoned each other to safety.

  Mum hugged Gran tightly, ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, dear. But you know what? It’s that day isn’t it? The reason for other families leaving this house. The reason Uncle Charles said “strange things happened”. It’s the eve of Midsummer’s Day. We forgot about the folklore.’

  Mum, surveying the damage and strewn objects, was in tears. ‘We chose not to believe silly legends. Why? Why?’

  No one could answer her.

  The only thing moving was dust, lots of it. It was horrific.

  ‘This is like the blitz again,’ said Gran. ‘Alice, don’t tread on that broken glass with bare feet.’ Mum shed inconsolable tears, covering her face with her hands.

  I think we all had bare feet that night. Tiptoeing gingerly to the far end of the kitchen, I spotted more glass all over the floor. The weak panes in the French doors had all collapsed.

  I looked out. It wasn’t that clear, but it looked like a hooded figure by the summer house. I was about to shout something, when I heard mum’s heartbroken cries and decided to keep the vision to myself, but it didn’t stop me going out of the still rickety French doors towards the figure. It faced me, and I told myself it was just a big shrub, until it glided. The priest.

  ‘It’s not your doing. They will have a proper Catholic burial, you’ll see.’

  An eerie silence. Midsummer Night’s eve. I went back in the house.

  George was sweeping. What a task. There were thousands of pieces of broken crockery, frying pans, saucepans and kitchen utensils: all had been mercilessly strewn and dumped.

  It reminded me of the aftermath of a tidal wave.

  Now, having located something to put on our feet, we all picked things up; Annabel had brought some rubbish bags. It would take forever. Gran had managed to boil water and make Mum some tea in an unbroken cup. No doubt Gran had searched for the whisky. I hoped the bottle had escaped being chucked and smashed on the floor. They were sitting on chairs that they had to turn the right way up and just taking it all in, unable to speak, while we cleaned up. Mickey was let outside, to save his paws from being cut. He had been terrified.

  Mum said she hated the house and nothing had gone right since we had arrived. I’d hated the house too, last summer, but now I never wanted to leave, in spite of all this.

  Mum rose from the chair wearily and paced slowly around the rooms, touching things she’d valued, things she’d asked the delivery men almost a year ago to be so careful with, now all broken.

  I worried for her. She had been through such a lot, with Dad and everything.

  ‘I’m not sure if Dad renewed the insurance policy,’ she said softly to herself as she surveyed the damage.

  Mum watched Gran bag some treasured pieces of plates, cups and saucers from a set she and Dad had been given as a wedding present. Tears trickled from under her dark lashes and I suddenly recalled the excitement she felt when she first saw Becton Manor, almost skipping around it, like a little girl.

  Gran, practical as ever, comforted her.

  ‘Look…they’re just things. We have the money now, if we sell the chalice alone, to buy an even posher set. What matters is not material things, Alice, but that we’re all safe. And soon Albert will be completely well again and able to come home. We will get over this. We are a stoic lot: we all learned how to be during the war.’

  It did the trick. Mum nodded, ‘Yes, you’re right, no reason to be miserable. But I can’t face that again.’ She fixed her gaze on Gran, ‘Not one more night like that. Besides, if we bought a new set, come next June, it would just get smashed. We must be stupid to live here, Mum, absolutely stupid.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  June 24th 1958

  Dawn was breaking. A beautiful hazy sunshine filtered through the windows on that Sunday morning. It was a relief it was June and not January, with every pane of glass shattered from the effects of the ‘poltergeist’. More likely it was the work of several of them, looking at the state of the rooms. We were still sweeping and bagging up broken glass, crockery and other things, all now deemed as rubbish. Mum had calmed down but the look of disgust and hatred for the house was evident.

  Two constables and another man in a suit came to the house early, about nine o’clock. One of the constables was a petite woman. She would probably fit in the tunnel, but assessing whether she would crawl on her hands and knees was another question.

  We hadn’t been back to bed, so we were all sleep-deprived and, by the look on their faces, they noticed.

  After formal introductions, they took pens and paper from their bags. The policeman was called PC Andrews, the woman PC Wilcox, and the man in the suit was a forensic archaeologist called Marcus Sampson. He was about thirty and a ‘know-all.’

  They were astonished at the state of the house and the broken windows. When we related all that had happened, PC Andrews had so many pages of notes that his pen ran dry.

  We had a job to find him another. Pens could have landed anywhere. Upstairs was nowhere near as bad, however, and Annabel brought him one from her school satchel. He drank no less than three cups of tea, by which time, he was looking flustered, his paperwork was so disorganised.

  George had been studying him and now said he wasn’t going to be a copper when he left school: far too much writing.

  The three of them occasionally had little chats that obviously weren’t for our ears, but then one or the other would turn to us and summarise what they had been discussing.

  Marcus Sampson explained that the bones, although apparently bones of antiquity, still presented a case for a criminal investigation. Mum’s eyebrows were raised when he further mentioned that murder had to be ruled out.

  They had brought photographic equipment, wanting to photograph the bones and the area. As they were quite smartly dressed in dark suits, the image of them crawling through the shaft amused me no end.

  When at last Marcus Sampson was satisfied that he had obtained sufficient data, he e
xplained to us that all discovered human remains have to be reported to the coroner’s office.

  Of course, it was necessary to liaise with the criminal team, just to rule out a murder…and that was the reason for PC Andrews’s presence. But he emphasised, noticing Mum and Gran’s concern, ‘I’m sure they are simply bones of antiquity. There are ways of establishing the age of bones and we also take samples of the surrounding soil or debris. It’s a balance of scientific and contextual evidence.’

  Mum, Gran and Annabel nodded, but I was unsure how much of that had sunk in. Then they asked for somewhere they could get changed. It would just be PC Wilcox and himself. Ah, I was beginning to be impressed.

  We went to the iron sheeting. It was only loosely placed now. I offered to show them the way into the far chamber but they wanted to go it alone, muttering something about safety. Yeah, tell me about it.

  I had warned them not to talk while down there, lest they cause the release of grit and stones by vibration. I didn’t mention spirits.

  They didn’t listen. Marcus Sampson got stuck and started shouting to PC Wilcox, to go back. It was too late.

  Swirls of grit and other debris erupted from the tunnel. Why was I grinning? PC Wilcox was shaking as she emerged: normally a brunette, she was now a dusty grey. Marcus Sampson was demonstrating being flustered on the job.

  Gasping, he managed to say how tiny it was down there, how he had forgotten his claustrophobic tendencies and how he never realised the extent to which vibrations could cause a potential collapse of a tunnel.

  Well, I did say. After checking his photographic equipment, he was pleased it wasn’t damaged. ‘We will have to come back, I’m afraid.’

  You don’t say.

  Mum apologised we didn’t have a bathroom.

 

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