'Ms Cribben, my name is Gabe Caleigh.'
Who? She didn't know anyone called Caleigh. Did she? No, she would have remembered. She wasn't stupid as everyone thought she was. Just because she wouldn't speak, it did not mean she'd forgotten how to. Oh no, that would have been too risky. Did they still hang people these days? She couldn't be sure. And she certainly couldn't ask.
The stranger had made himself comfortable now, he's sitting on the edge of the bed— her bed. Who had given him permission? Improper, that's what it was. Most inappropriate behaviour, a strange man alone with a poor defenceless woman who could not even protest! The very idea! It was a good thing the door was open or he might have tried anything. On her bed, indeed! Such insolence, such bad manners.
She wouldn't let him know she was cross, though. She would not reveal her outrage. She wouldn't even look at him any more.
'Currently I'm living at Crickley Hall with my family.'
Crickley Hall! There it was. He would try to trick her, he'd ask about the house, what happened there…
'Do you remember Crickley Hall, Magda?'
Oh such atrocious manners. He was addressing her by her Christian name as if he were a friend or an acquaintance. Trying to be familiar because he wanted to ask her questions. But no, she wouldn't be tricked, she wouldn't speak to him, no, she'd not say a single word. He wasn't even English, he was what was commonly called a Yank. The Yanks were coming to help Britain fight the Germans. No, no. The war had ended, hadn't it? It was over a few years ago. Ten? Fifty? A hundred? It was a long time since, if she remembered correctly. And she did remember correctly, didn't she? Yes, she did, more than anyone else would ever know.
'When you were in your thirties you lived in the house called Crickley Hall with your brother, Augustus Theophilus Cribben.'
He knows something! He knows something about Augustus and he's trying to trick me into telling him about what happened that time in Crickley Hall. That horrible night when the river broke its banks and the river beneath the house rose up through the well. She had escaped just moments before the flood had come, when Augustus was—no! She must not even think of it! Her heart was pounding and he might hear it. It would give her away. She must calm herself, reveal nothing in her expression. 'That the time may have all shadow and silence in it.' Shakespeare wrote that. See how acute her memory was? After she had been found the next morning, they had explained what had befallen Augustus and the children—what they thought had befallen them—but she had not betrayed herself, she had not shown any emotion, even though inside she had been devastated, her heart and soul left raw and damaged. She had been cunning, though: she had pretended to be in deep shock. No, that wasn't quite true—she had been in deep shock—but she had fooled them all, the doctors who had examined her, the police and the various officials. Even the pious prig, the Reverend Rossbridger (yes, see how sharp her memory was?) had been duped when he had come to the hospital, pleading with her to save her brother's righteous name (and, of course, his own by association). He had wanted her to refute the outrageous but necessarily covert report and the rumours that followed it, stories of how Augustus had shut the orphans in Crickley Hall's cellar on the night of the flood. Surely Augustus would not have acted so wickedly, Rossbridger had pleaded. The guardian has cherished those unfortunate children. Certainly he was firm with them, but he was loving also, and taught them the way of the Lord. Speak out, dear Magda, the old fool had begged her, defend your brother's honour. But she would not speak out, the truth would only defile Augustus's good name even more.
And then, many years later when she was in the bad place where they had locked her away and she thought she'd finally been forgotten, another man came to speak with her. But this one she knew well, even though he had changed, for he had been her willing ally once.
He had been aware of everything—all that had taken place that last night and all that had gone on before: everything—but he, too, had plied her with questions, questions, questions, and she had played dumb, she had not broken her silence even for him, she'd not said a single word. She wasn't going to be gulled into admitting anything! She was just a dumb old lady with no memories and who played no part in the present world.
Curiously he had looked satisfied when he left her all alone again (which was how she liked it— no temptations to speak then). He had never returned, though, and that was fine too. Her own company was good enough for her! Perhaps he didn't know they'd moved her to this place, where she had the door open all day (she had closed it several times when she'd first arrived, but they had scolded her, so she didn't do it any more. That was perfectly all right, though—they could spy on her as much as they liked, but they wouldn't catch her out, she was too clever for them).
'Back in 1943,' Gabe said doggedly, aware that Magda was paying no heed, as if she were in a world of her own, 'you and your brother were custodians of a bunch of evacuees sent down from London because of the war. Do you remember that? Just nod your head if you do, you don't have to speak.'
Now this man was interrogating her! Had he no respect for a frail old woman whose only pleasure was solitude? Why was he asking about the best-forgotten past? Hadn't she suffered enough, didn't she still have the nightmares? Surely she had paid the price for what had happened at Crickley Hall. None of it was her fault anyway—she'd left the house when she realized her brother had lost his mind. She couldn't have helped those children—Augustus was too strong and he might have turned on her! She had run out into the storm, and then walked miles to get away from Crickley Hall and her brother's madness. She couldn't, she wouldn't be blamed! At least, not for that night. Her grievous sin came before then, but she'd only committed it out of love for her Augustus, knowing he would have been in serious trouble with the authorities should they learn just how rigorous was his rule. The young teacher—what was her name? She knew it, she was sure, because her memory was razor sharp. Miss Linnet, that was it! Miss Nancy Linnet—the young teacher had to be stopped. Magda would not allow the betrayal! The girl had been soft with the children, pandering to them, treating them as if they were special. Well, they weren't special, they were unruly and needed strict discipline, a hardy regime to mould them into proper young persons! Augustus had the right idea, he knew the value of chastisement, and Magda always carried out what was expected of her. She revered her older brother.
The children learned respect, just as they learned their lessons, yet still they rebelled and still Augustus had to punish them. But finally, it all became too much for him: Augustus's mind snapped. His rage was awful and his actions frightened even her. First the Jewish infant (how she and her brother hated the Jews! They were the real reason, with their worldwide conspiracies and profiteering, for the war in Europe) had been dealt with, then the children who had attempted to run away. But in the end, it was she and the boy who had fled, frightened by Augustus's madness, not sure how far the insanity would drive him, afraid for their own lives.
'Magda, how about I get a pen and some paper? Couldn't you write down your answers? You used to be teacher, so obviously you're a educated woman.'
Hah! Flattery now. As if she would betray her brother. They had told her a long time ago that Augustus had drowned within the walls of Crickley Hall, so if his soul were weighed down by sin—a sin caused by his own derangement—he had paid the price. Now his soul should be left in peace.
They had also told her that the children had perished with him in the flood. How little these people knew! Perhaps they thought another shock would move her to speak, might unlock her mind and release her from the amnesia (the false amnesia!), but she had been too clever for them. She had not reacted at all; not one tear of grief had fallen from her eyes. She could tell her interrogators were suspicious about the deaths of the children, but they had no proof of what really happened that night. None at all. They didn't even know the fate of the young teacher with the ugly withered arm. And they never would. Not even on her own deathbed would she tell them. 'In dumb silence will I bury mine.' The great bard again, put so aptly. No, the secret would die with her.
'Y'see, Magda, weird things have been going on in Crickley Hall lately. My wife thinks the place is haunted. She figures there must be a reason for it. Now personally, I don't go along with all this ghost, uh, stuff, but I have to admit I've been pretty shaken by some of the things myself.'
What did he expect her to say if she chose to speak?
