The Secret of Crickley Hall

population not been so stranger-shy; the locals seemed to set more store in privacy than financial gain for, although it was late in the season and the weather was foul, there should have been more people on the two streets of the village than there were today—those few they did meet along the 'promenade' were certainly not holidaymakers, to judge by their sensible if dour attire.

Although the few shops and many of the houses looked pleasant enough in their pastel pinks and blues, the majority of them white-fronted, on closer inspection it could be noticed that the paintwork was flaky and cracked in places, the decoration tired and weather-worn, the woodwork chipped. Most windows were dark and uninviting, as if concealing their tenants, only one or two orange with the glows of autumn hearth fires. Rainwater gushed along gutters and pooled round overworked drains, sodden October leaves piling into heaps that blocked the gratings. The single teashop—perhaps the village's only deference to the sightseer—that Gabe and his family passed on their journey to the inn seemed dingy and unappealing, its fluorescent lighting too harsh, and drab lace half-curtains hung from a tarnished brass rail across the long window-front as if privacy was more important than invitation.

Fortunately, the Barnaby Inn, with its smoky-yellow walls and broad, sturdy posts rising to a low, beamed ceiling, a roaring log fire in the large inglenook fireplace at one end of the room, had proved a welcome retreat from the dismal mood of the harbour village itself (possibly the downpour negatively influenced their judgement).

Eve had at least tried to convince herself that overcast skies and constant fall of chilled rain, together with the great steel-grey expanse of the Bristol Channel whose waters lapped at the harbour wall, all conspired to render the village joyless and somehow, if it could be said of a place, sullen. Or was her own morbid depression tainting everything she saw and felt?

The only thing that slightly spoilt the pub's welcoming atmosphere was the hard stares they received from the customers inside when the family bustled in, dripping water onto the rubber entrance mat and voicing their relief to be out of the rain. They were boldly watched as Gabe guided Eve and the girls to a cushioned benchseat against a wall, a long wooden table between it and two hard-backed chairs.

'We don't loik strangers 'roind ere,' Gabe whispered to Eve in an awful version of the West Country accent as he pulled out one of the chairs for her. At least she smiled when she shushed him.

The other customers returned to their conversations and brews, little warmth or further interest coming from them.

However, the barmaid, who had short chestnut-coloured hair and a dazzling smile, was courteous and friendly as she reeled off the two specials of the day to them from her position behind the bar, and the food, when it arrived, was both tasty and abundant. Even Loren, who was a picky eater at the best of times and who had groaned when the huge plate of sea bass with chips and peas was placed in front of her, finished nearly every last morsel. The sea air and the long walk down to the village were obviously doing wonders for her appetite, Eve thought to herself, pleased by the transition. Gabe relished the local brew again (he and Vern had sunk several pints of Tawny Bitter between them on their earlier visit, the hard graft of lifting and unloading stuff back at Crickley Hall engendering a special kind of thirst), while Eve stuck to tonic water (she used to enjoy good wines, but hadn't touched alcohol in almost a year), the girls orange and lemonade mixed (Loren's idea of a sophisticated drink, Cally copying her big sister).

When Gabe returned to the bar for a refill and another tonic for Eve, a thickset man with a florid face and greying hair appeared from a doorway behind the counter. He had the air of a landlord or manager and it was he who served Gabe.

'Passin' through, is it?' the man asked conversationally as he drew the pint.

'Uh-uh, I'm working in these parts for a short while, coupla months mebbe,' Gabe replied. 'Staying up at Crickley Hall.'

The beer flowed over the lip of the glass into a hidden sink below the bar as the man stared at him.

Wait a bit, Gabe thought. I've seen this movie. Isn't this where the ruddy-faced local warns him to keep clear of the old house up there on the hill? 'Strange things 'appen up there at the 'all.'

But the barman merely pushed back the pump and righted the glass. He smiled pleasantly as he placed the ale on the bar mat in front of Gabe and said, 'Dreadful weather we're havin' lately. Must have rained for three weeks solid now. Hope it don't spoil yer stay.'

'We'll be keeping ourselves pretty busy,' Gabe told him as he waited for the tonic. 'My daughter starts at the local school Monday.' The 'local' school was several miles away in the nearest town of Merrybridge.

Pouring half the tonic water into a fresh glass and leaving the rest in the bottle, which he stood beside it, the barman nodded. 'That'll be Merrybridge Middle School, will it? She'll be all right there. Most of the village kids go to the Merry Middle. Picked up by bus from the main street. S'pect the driver will make a stop at Crickley Hall for yer daughter, no problem for him. Frank's one of my regulars so I'll mention it when he comes in tonight. The school will have to make the formal arrangement regarding payment and insurance, but that's easily done.'

'Thanks, I'd be grateful. I'm taking her in myself the first morning but I'll fix it with the school. I need to go into Ilfracombe anyway.'

'And what about the little 'un?'

'She's only five. My wife'll take care of her while we're down here.' Gabe knew Eve would teach Cally the basics of reading and writing far more strictly than any nursery school.

As the other man took the money for the drinks and food from Gabe, he remarked, 'Big place, that Crickley Hall. Yer'll be rattlin' around in it.'

'I bet it'll be cold, too, in this weather.' This came from the attractive chestnut-haired barmaid, who had come back from serving a customer at the far end of the bar. Her Devonian burr was barely noticeable; if anything, her accent was more south London than West Country. 'It'll be damp. All those old places are.'

'Yeah, I found puddles on the stairs last night and I'm not sure how they got there,' Gabe replied. 'Maybe from a loose window frame. There's a big window over the stairs. All gone this morning, though, not even damp patches left behind.'

'You wait 'til there's a proper storm. Then you'll know about it. You've probably got a leaky roof too.' The girl gave a brief mock shiver.

The barman shrugged. 'Owner's not lived there fer years and them that rented it never stayed long.'

Oh-oh, Gabe said to himself wryly, here it comes. Fifty years ago a mad axeman chopped up his family and hid the body parts all over the house, or at the turn of the last century the wealthy owner of Crickley Hall, old Charlie Crickley himself, forbade his daughter to marry the local ratcatcher and she hanged herself in the cellar.

But the bartender went on: 'That's why the place has been so neglected and why yer gettin' yer leaks.'

'I thought the old guy, Percy—Percy Judd?—took care of the house.'

The other man gave him a rueful grin. 'Percy's a bit ancient to do much upkeep. That's why the estate manager pays two ladies from the village to go in and give it a good dusting once a month. No, Percy can't do a lot on his own nowadays. To be honest wiv yer, he's only kept on out of kindness. Has he been knocking on yer door yet?'

'Yesterday, soon after we arrived. Just how old is he?'

The barman's forehead creased as he took a moment to think. He scratched his chin. 'Oh, he must be… well, I don't know for sure, but he's got to be nearly eighty by now. Served overseas wiv the army at the end of the last world war, so he must be getting' on a bit.'

Gabe whistled softly through his teeth. 'And he's still working?'

'Like I say, as a kindness. No one likes to sack him, y'see. He helps out at the church en' all, but nothing too heavy, just tending the churchyard, collectin' hymn books after Mass, that sort of thing. He's a dear old chap, set in his ways, though, determined like. Won't retire no matter how many times it's been suggested. He's harmless— won't give yer no bother.'

'He's sweet,' chimed in the barmaid.

'Customer wants serving, Frannie.' The barman gave a nod towards a customer waiting further down, two empty glasses before him on the counter. Giving Gabe one final smile, Frannie went off to take the customer's order.

The barman leaned one elbow on the bar. 'I'm the landlord of the Barnaby,' he told Gabe, 'and anything yer want to know about the area, just drop by and I'll try to oblige. If I'm not around, my wife, Vera, or our Frannie will be.'