The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ smiled PC Wilcox, but I think it did.

  When they were back in their own clean clothes, Marcus Sampson said he would send a letter to us with the date of the next visit and be much more prepared.

  Later on that day, George’s mum came to take George home. He reluctantly left. She had said sorry about ‘the incident’ but declined to come in for tea.

  It was all a bit quick and impersonal after all we had been through.

  We all missed him. He was like part of the family. But there was so much to do in terms of tidying up and arranging for somebody to repair all the damaged windows.

  Mum mentioned that we should talk to the local Catholic priest. She thought it was a good idea for a blessing. It might help prevent future turmoil.

  So she donned her best hat—whatever for, I don’t know—and she and Gran visited Father Terence Henderson. He understood, agreed, and said he would phone the police to arrange a suitable Sunday. Being a religious figure, he had a phone, lucky man; he didn’t have to run to a red box every time he wanted to reach someone quickly.

  *

  I didn’t want to go to school on the Monday except to see George. His parents were going to get a divorce. It had been rough going for years but he didn’t want to say much so I didn’t push it, but to take his mind off his home troubles I got a library book out at lunchtime and, in Science, our project was simple.

  I placed a large Science and Nature book over the top of an encyclopaedia, just in case Mr Pearson, the teacher caught us. Quiet research and project work all afternoon. Brilliant.

  We searched the encyclopaedia for information on ceruse, white lead make-up and belladonna. We discovered the lead mixture over a period of time caused lead poisoning: the symptoms being weakness, mental confusion, and seizures. The worst-case scenario being death, especially for children.

  ‘That’s amazing. If this Mary wore that white stuff, she could have died from lead poisoning.’ said George. ‘Kathleen Melton had provided her with the powders and that’s why she says her heart has broken. She blames her medicines and also her faith on her possible downfall, but also says this Edward Griffin is to blame.’

  I was glad he referred to this information as amazing and hoped he was returning to normal. He began to search the index pages for belladonna. After he had read the few paragraphs, muttering under his breath, he offered his theory:

  ‘It’s a highly poisonous plant, growing in some hedgerows. Its other name is Deadly Nightshade. Very likely the plant that poisoned the Earl of Becton.’

  Mr Pearson was looking at us.

  George smiled, ‘A good lesson sir, very interesting.’ Mr Pearson frowned. We looked down and stifled giggles.

  *

  A letter arrived a few days later to say Marcus Sampson would visit again on Sunday July 27th to take away the bones. Permission to exhume with the purpose of a sacred burial was sanctioned.

  He had received notification that, on the same afternoon, there would be a ceremony by the local priest, Terence Henderson to bless the house following the exhumation.

  On Friday July 25th, the first day of our school holidays, PC Andrews came to the house, wielding a letter: or rather, a report.

  ‘It’s from the County Records Department in Matlock. They have a few parish records from the late sixteenth century. From 1597, a copy of all parish records had to be made and they were sent to the Bishop of Derby. Many, though, were chewed up by mice or rats or destroyed by the elements: mainly damp. You’re lucky… Copies of the records for your house were kept almost pristine, in metal boxes.

  ‘It seems a Father Robert Peters was murdered at this property: in the stables. He sustained a fatal head injury on the night of June 23rd, 1598. They never found the culprit, but about six years later a gardener by the name of Ged Connor, eager to go to Heaven and not hell, confessed on his deathbed that he had seen a man and a woman steal horses from the stable after killing the priest. He thought he heard children crying but he had dismissed it. He said nothing at the time because he was sure the man was the family tutor: a Master Edward Griffin. A man he was afraid of.

  ‘It also states in the records that the Earl of Becton’s brother wanted the tutor arrested for embezzlement, but he was never found. The earl’s widow, Lady Charlotte, moved to London with her son Oliver, leaving this brother-in-law—Gilbert Harrison Esquire—to act as caretaker of the estate, but he died before the gardener’s confession. Lady Charlotte died about two years after moving to London and there is no record of what happened to the son, Oliver. Which is strange, because Oliver would have inherited the house and land. It’s assumed therefore that Oliver met his end, somehow.’

  He paused to check if we were taking it all in. The silence confirmed that we were certainly doing a lot of thinking. I needed to summarise.

  ‘Edward Griffin murdered Father Peters? And…the gardener thought he had heard children, but dismissed it. I don’t think the boy ghost was Oliver because he went off to London with his mother and apparently never returned. Strange, I had a vivid dream that a boy dressed in Tudor style clothes ask me if I was Oliver. So…I think the boy ghost is Jack: the other bones belong to his sister.’

  ‘I’m astounded.’ Mum whispered, nodding her head.

  ‘Perhaps that is all accurate, Tom. So you have quite a history here, Mrs Winchett …once the bones have been analysed, Tom, you will know if you have a boy and a girl down there, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it seems so.’

  ‘Oh those poor children.’ Gran shook her head. ‘Where will the bones be taken to?’

  PC Andrews told us they would go to the mortuary, where they would have all sorts of tests on them to ascertain the age, gender, the approximate time of death, the cause of death, and so on. With such old bones, it may not be too easy because of decomposition, or scavengers.

  Annabel was curious. ‘Scavengers?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Insects down there, things that want to eat dead flesh.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  Gran was also curious.

  ‘How do they find out the age and the sex?’

  ‘Well, the state of the teeth are a giveaway. Young people’s teeth are much better and they have more of them. Bones have joins in them and children may have fissures: that’s little cracks that indicate more growing to do. Regarding gender, the pelvis on a female is bigger, the skulls would be different. The actual age of the bones can be measured by the mineral deposits in them, mostly carbon, I think, but I’m not the expert.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Interesting stuff.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the policeman. ‘I wanted to ask you if I could be at the service on Sunday when the forensic people take away the bones. I understand the priest has recommended a blessing. It’s not a work request, I’m off duty. Just fascinated by your story.’ He was smiling at Mum, eager for her response.

  ‘Yes, the priest is coming to do a blessing. Seems appropriate, maybe a bit of insurance, to stop it happening again. Of course I don’t mind if you attend.’

  Annabel and I both asked if George could come and Mum agreed.

  *

  George was allowed to stay over. We didn’t sleep much: excitement, I suppose, in anticipation of the following day’s event.

  When we arrived at our house, from picking up George, the smell of dinner was so welcoming. Gran had made a lovely shepherd’s pie, to be followed by an apple pie. George never had home cooking and his expression of pleasure and appreciation always pleased Mum and Gran.

  After dinner, we all talked and talked and talked about the last year at Becton Manor, about Dad’s accident and recovery, the whisperings, the priest’s holes and tunnels and the treasure.

  We hadn’t yet mentioned that to the police. We debated whether we needed to disclose everything that we had discovered. Mum thought that we should. I mooted giving up the herb box for burial with the bones and Annabel said we should at least hold it during the removal of the bones as a
sign of respect, but she was adamant that we keep all the treasure.

  ‘Well why not? It was all found on our property.’

  Mum and Gran nodded. They then discussed whether we should sell the items. I really didn’t want to, unless it became necessary…but, I did tell George he would be a beneficiary.

  I couldn’t quite decide whether the glee on his face was greater than when he knew he would be eating a grand supper. In any case, the old George seemed to be coming back.

  *

  Marcus Sampson and a female colleague, called Sally Barnes, arrived to remove the bones, as planned on the afternoon of Sunday, July 27th.

  Sally was petite and athletic looking and I wondered if that’s why she’d landed this job. She looked like she might be up for it. By this time, I could pretty much put my money on who would make it to the end of the tunnel and back. No one had ventured down the first way we found, climbing down that shaft from Gran’s room and through the tunnel’s foul water. This entrance had been a great find and I was proud of that.

  Sally and Marcus were shown into different rooms to put on their overalls. We waited for Father Terence Henderson and PC Andrews to arrive. Mum was anxiously looking out of the window.

  ‘The priest is here,’ she announced. ‘And he looks rather grand.’ She excitedly walked to the front door. The priest did look grand. He was dressed in full white robes with a clerical collar of purple and green, a gently swaying beautiful gold pendant hanging around his neck.

  He was accompanied by an assistant: a short, serious-looking man with a dark moustache and flat well-parted hair. I thought he looked like Adolf Hitler, but no…can’t be.

  My mum greeted them and they quickly entered, the priest shaking my mum’s hand and that of my Gran. Then, surprisingly, I thought, he took notice of us, a broad smile on his face. He shook the hands of Annabel, George and I. At last, someone who had respect for young people.

  Gran asked them to sit down and it was just at that point that PC Andrews arrived. He apologised for being late but was pleased to hear the explanation of the blessing procedure. ‘Adolf’ had all the equipment in a large leather bag. He proceeded to withdraw a thurible, a cross and a flagon of holy water.

  I’m sure George was thinking what I was thinking: about the religious artefacts found in the chest near the kitchen fireplace.

  The service, Father Henderson said, would not take long but would involve prayers of deliverance, to bless our house and the garden, with the intention of driving out demons.

  There were more introductions, when the forensic archaeologists came out of their ‘changing rooms’ wearing their work overalls, Sally with her head covered. Marcus must have warned her.

  Then, as if we were on a crusade, we all set off to the tunnel’s entrance. A breeze was stirring but it was still quite warm, about four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Marcus and Sally started their descent. We would wait until they returned with the bones.

  I didn’t like it. Something was amiss. The aura moment was too eerie. The skies went dark as if we were about to experience the biggest storm ever; it was more like the darkness of midnight rather than four o’clock.

  A sudden gust of cold wind blew some dust and grit into the air. It caught our attention. Father Henderson said he hadn’t thought it was going to rain this evening and he smiled. He was so calm. The way he spoke and his demeanour made you feel very peaceful.

  Then…grit and gravel swirled upwards from the tunnel aperture, the way a tornado does and spread itself among us. A series of explosions were heard from below. Mum and Gran held one another.

  PC Andrews was agitated. ‘Get out of there, quickly!’ he yelled, covering his face as he shouted down the hole to the forensic people.

  We heard cries for help. Sally was screeching. She emerged, breathless, dishevelled, dirty and in total panic. She scrambled out, gasping, as she faced the policeman.

  ‘There’s something evil down there. It was awful. There are more bones, but I was scared. Marcus is still there, trying to bag them up, but it’s not good. It’s so threatening and claustrophobic.’

  Well, I thought, what did you expect of an underground tunnel and vault?’

  PC Andrews yelled again into the tunnel.

  No sign of Marcus. Although he wasn’t supposed to be on duty, I guess he felt like he was at that moment. What could have happened to the forensic archaeologist?

  George confirmed that he too, thought PC Andrews was in ‘copper’ mode.

  George, Annabel and I looked at one another knowingly. ‘I’ll go,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s too dangerous for you,’ PC Andrews said firmly.

  Mum, having never seen the flying debris, was worried. ‘He’s right, Tom. You can’t go down. It might cave in or something.’

  Annabel and George added their support. ‘He’ll be fine, let him go.’

  Amid the group’s hesitation, I took a bag and gloves from Sally and climbed down. I chanted my learned Latin, repeating it all the way through the small tunnel. When I reached the end, Marcus was huddled, his arms covering his face. ‘Does it ever stop?’ he yelled, as he saw me approach.

  I stopped chanting and looked at the bones, then in English, I said loudly, above the din: ‘You can be free, Jack. Father Peters is waiting for you both.’

  The silence that followed was surreal. Marcus stared at me. No swirling, no debris, nothing but calm. No dark shape, no eerie feelings. Just an odd sense of peace, an aura.

  In the chamber, I put on the gloves and gently picked up the remaining bones. I couldn’t stop tears falling. It was so unexpected an emotion, but now I felt I knew them.

  *

  Marcus joined me in carefully removing the bones. He was quite a sight, poor man. Covered in grey dust from head to toe, with red patches and traces of blood on his face; the bombardment of grit and debris had stripped him of any composure. He admitted to me that he had never experienced anything like that before, and he was fair trembling.

  As we climbed out to meet the others, with the skeletons in our possession, the darkness was foreboding. All seemed visibly relieved to see us, however…with the exception of a new arrival…in flight. The raven.

  The wingspan was daunting and I could see that Father Henderson was troubled by him, as the bird made his familiar ‘prok’ sound and then, unbelievably, perched right on top of the herb box, which I had left on the ground. He pecked at the jewels.

  Annabel went to scare it away but suddenly it pecked her face until blood appeared. ‘Ouch,’ she called out, wiping her cheek. Gran, Mum and George then ran at it, Mum waving a stick. It briefly flew upwards, but came back to swoop at all of us, trying to peck at anything that got near it.

  Father Henderson lost his calm exterior and was now a flustered bag of nerves, trying to wave his cross at the bird, but going hopelessly dizzy. Marcus was protecting Sally, and George and Annabel were helping me to fight him off.

  Gran offered Father Henderson her hip flask, expecting a refusal.

  ‘Would you like some brandy?’

  He took a large swig.

  Corvus was relentless. We kept on ducking, but it was the herb box he was drawn to. Incredibly, the box lifted from the ground as Corvus shoved his beak under the lid. Father Henderson grabbed Gran’s flask, taking another swig.

  I approached it and pulled the box away. In a rage and squawking, he dived at my face. I wouldn’t put the box down but he forced me to crouch over, in an attempt to protect the box and my face. He started to peck the back of my neck.

  PC Andrews, wearing thick gloves, rushed forward and grabbed the bird. It turned on him but he managed to pin it down on the ground with a large stone, before thrashing it a couple of times. Then he flicked out a pen knife from his pocket and slit its throat. We all stood, stunned as blood spurted and feathers were scattered.

  Gran couldn’t help herself, ‘Oh Jesus Christ.’ Then gasped again as she realised her blasphemy and muttered, ’Sorry Father,�
�

  I turned to the priest.

  ‘Please hurry. Please complete the blessing.’

  A speechless Father Henderson was gaping and quivering, ‘Er…er…’ He lifted the processional cross high in the air and began to conduct the blessing. His bottom lip quivered as he rushed through the prayer:

  ‘We pray for deliverance…in the name of Jesus Christ. We….pray that the demons who beset this house, will be cast out forever. We pray for God’s blessing.’

  He stopped to check that the bird was motionless before throwing holy water over the entrance to the tunnel. Then he spoke again, ‘Peace be with you…eternal peace…and no more…suffering. Peace be…with the children who… are now…free. God…rest their souls. Peace in this house and in this garden.’

  He looked again at the bird, before Adolf gave him the thurible, which contained the lit charcoal and now the burning of the incense. He chanted as he swung the thurible on its three delicate chains, scented smoke dispersing.

  ‘May the blessing of our almighty God, the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit be with you, for ever and ever.’

  Again he looked at Corvus as if he expected the bird to rise at any moment. He then gulped and continued, ‘Be damned, you of all evil intent, be gone from this world. God Bless those affected by your sins. Leave, in the name of Jesus Christ.’

  He paused to look at the corpse of the bird, before repeating, ‘Leave now, in the name of our Lord. Amen.’ He kept crossing himself and muttering before he gasped deeply for breath. ‘We will… say… the… Lord’s Prayer.’

  We did so, but it was difficult to keep our heads down, even though Corvus had been killed. The priest crossed himself again. ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord. Amen.’

  We repeated, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord, Amen.’

  There was a calmness, a tranquillity that I had experienced briefly in the tunnel with the bones.

  The darkness lifted, the air became warm. Gran squeezed Mum’s hand and hugged her.