The Secret of Crickley Hall

all do.'

Gabe wondered if they would. He felt that Eve would leave right now if she had her way. And the girls? Last night's incident scared them, but neither of them had complained this morning at breakfast. It was as if Loren was looking to her mother for guidance, and Cally seemed to have forgotten her upset already. The three of them had gone off to the Sunday-morning service at St Mark's—even though it was C of E—without mentioning the episode; but Gabe knew that Eve was waiting to get him alone.

With one last comforting pat on Chester's rump, Gabe rose and went to the sink where he poured tap water into the kettle. While he waited for the water to boil, his thoughts returned to Eve.

She really was creeped out by Crickley Hall. And he wasn't too comfortable with the place himself. When he had gone downstairs during the night to bring Chester back to their room, he had trodden in more small puddles on the broad steps, and there were others across the flagstone floor of the hall. If the dog hadn't been shut away in the kitchen, Gabe might have suspected him of leaving his mark all over the place. But these had no smell: they were plain water. However, it had been windy outside and he supposed that rain might have been blown through cracks in the tall window over the stairs. Had it been windy when he had first noticed the puddles the night before? He couldn't remember. But anyway, that wouldn't explain the ones across the hall.

Maybe they should get out right away, find some other house to rent, something not as weird as Crickley Hall. A place slap-damn in the middle of a village or town, somewhere not so isolated. Or so lonely. He couldn't risk Eve becoming more depressed than she was already. She had been through too much this past year—they all had.

But the tragedy had changed Eve more than it had Gabe.

When they had first met, she had been a staff fashion writer for a magazine called Plenty, organizing fashion shoots, auditioning and hiring models, choosing photographers, finding suitable locations for background interest, liaising with PR companies, reporting on the main fashion shows in the UK and Europe, interviewing celebrities to discover whose labels they were currently wearing.

She and Gabe were only married six months before Loren came along and Eve went freelance. Her contacts and her reputation were good and before long she was doing work for a number of magazines—Marie Claire, Vogue, Elle, among others—and was able to concentrate on writing purely about fashion without the baggage that went with it. But when Cameron was born, and then Catherine (Cally) a year later, Eve put her career on hold for a while so that she could devote more time to her family.

By then, they were living in a largish Victorian property in Canonbury, north London, and Gabe's salary was high enough to cover most of their needs. She still accepted the more interesting assignments, however, and when she did she would put her best efforts into them, which was why her very last freelance job—covering London's Fashion Week—had left her so exhausted. And that exhaustion had led her to falling asleep for a few minutes in the park where Cameron had gone missing…

Eve was wrong to blame herself, but how could he convince her? He pushed the thoughts away as he spooned coffee granules into a mug, then poured boiling water over them. There had been too much brooding for way too long. If only for Loren and Cally's sake, Eve had to snap out of it. But how could he help her?

Although Cam was a real boy's boy, a son that a father could really enjoy, Eve seemed to have a special 'connection' with him. No, he wasn't a momma's boy, but there was an affinity between them. They even shared the same trivial abnormality: the little finger of Cam's right hand was shorter than the one on his left, the same as Eve's; they also both had fingerprint whorls on the fleshy mount of their right palm. It was a similarity that they enjoyed, for it wasn't an obvious deformity—hands had to be compared to notice it.

Looking out the window, Gabe saw that the rain had stopped, although only temporarily judging by the ominous clouds that cruised the sky. As he watched, the sun broke out from behind one of those clouds and the lawn glistened with raindrops caught in the grass. The sudden brightness and the green denseness of the grass and foliage lifted some of the heaviness of spirit from him. Whatever the shortcomings of Crickley Hall itself, it couldn't be denied that it was in a beautiful location. From where he stood in the kitchen he could see past the old oak from which the swing dangled to the rushing waters of the Bay River, fallen leaves and small broken branches swept along with its hurried journey down to the Bristol Channel. He watched as a heron landed on the opposite bank close to the wooden bridge; the heavy bird must have decided that this was a poor place to catch passing fish, for its great wings soon flapped and it took off again in an impossibly lumbering rise into the air.

Gabe felt the need for fresh air himself and he carried his mug of coffee into the main hall where he unlocked the big front door to let the breeze, such as it was, circulate and disperse some of the musty odour that permeated the house. He stood on the doorstep and sipped the coffee as grey wagtails, with their black bibs, wheeled and dived over the garden, catching insects and celebrating the rare sunshine.

His thoughts returned to Eve, how she had changed, how she was before that fateful day. She was still beautiful to him—slim, small-breasted, long-legged, with deep-brown eyes that matched her deep-brown hair—but now there were lines on her face that had only appeared during the last few months, and there was a darkness round her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and sadness of soul. Her hair, once worn so long that its ends cascaded over her shoulders, was now cut short, urchin-style, not because of fashion but because it was easier to manage, nothing to bother over. A psychologist might suggest it was shorn as self-punishment, arising from guilt.

She used to have a sly humour, a sharp wit, but now Eve was subdued, her thoughts—and her feelings— distracted by the loss. To see her this way added to Gabe's own grief, but there was nothing he could do that he hadn't already tried to ease her despair. Even harsh, desperate words, tough love they called it, had failed to draw any positive response because she fully accepted her own condition and refused to be stung by his criticism. Ultimately, he could only love her, not in an indulgent way, but in a way that let her know that he cast no blame on her.

Gabe drew in a deep breath of fresh moist air. A little sunshine made a difference, he thought. It helped cheer the soul. If only the rain—

His legs almost buckled as Chester brushed by him. The dog scooted across the lawn, past the swing that stirred lazily in the breeze.

Goddamnit! He'd forgotten about the mutt, hadn't closed the kitchen door behind him. Chester had seen his chance for freedom and had taken it. Like a bat out of hell, he streaked towards the bridge.

'Chester! Get back here!'

The dog hesitated at the bridge, turned briefly to look back at his master, then scooted across it without stopping on the other side. Gabe stepped out of the doorway, coffee in hand, and stared open-mouthed.

'Chester!' he tried again. Exasperated, he put the coffee mug on the doorstep, then took off after the runaway. Gabe ran across the bridge, continuing to call the dog's name, but knowing that by the determined way Chester had bolted up the hill he would stop for no one. Gabe stood in the middle of the lane, hoping to see some sign of the dog, but Chester was nowhere in sight.

Gabe called out once more, this time through cupped hands, but it was futile: Chester had vanished.

A shout from behind had Gabe swinging round.

'Daddy!'

Eve and the girls were walking up the hill towards him from the direction of the church.

'What is it, Gabe?' Eve asked as they drew nearer.

'It's that goddamn mongrel' Gabe shook his head in frustration. 'He's hit the road.'

'Daddy.' It was a moan from both girls.

'It's okay. We'll find him. He can't have gone far.'

Cally's face was already screwed up, ready for tears.

'How did he get out?' Eve was a little breathless from the steady climb up the hill.

'Aah, I had the front door open and he hightailed it.' Gabe shook his head once again, angry at himself. 'Goddamnit.'

Loren's face was full of concern. 'We haven't lost him, have we, Dad?'

'No, honey. We'll find him.' To Eve he said: 'I'll take a walk along the road. If I keep calling him, he might just be obedient for once and come back.'

'I'll go with you, Dad,' Loren said immediately.

'Me too, me too.' Cally raced to him and pulled at his arm.