sister led the boy along the dingy landing to her bedroom, where she had drawn him in by tugging at his shirtsleeve. She brought him to her bed and, still wordlessly, she lay him down on it. She turned off the bedside lamp and he heard her undressing in the darkness.
If Magda was disappointed with her young lover—he may have been big and mature for his age, but he
Next day, Magda was her usual cold, stone-faced self, although she treated him with less severity than the other boys and girls. Augustus Cribben also regarded Maurice with less asperity, never once using the cane on him nor punishing him in any other way—not that Maurice ever did anything to occasion the guardian's displeasure. In a way, he had become part of Crickley Hall's ruling triumvirate, although his own power was limited to informing on the other orphans and keeping them in order whenever Cribben or Magda were busy in other parts of the house.
And so it went on: The flogging, then scrubbing of Augustus Cribben, the loveless trysts with Magda. All this went on while the other children lived in misery, with daily punishments, sparse rations and lack of love (which was the most needed).
The little Jewish boy was singled out for particular punishment. Maurice was delighted to tell Magda that Stefan had climbed into Susan Trainer's bed one night and slept with her until morning call. Magda was disgusted (and perversely pleased) to hear of such naughtiness and Stefan was at once taken down to the bitterly cold, damp cellar and left there all day and all night, on his own in the dark, the only sound he would hear being the rushing water at the bottom of the well. It was a dreadful punishment, for the total darkness could conjure all manner of monsters and demons in the mind of a five-year-old child, especially one who was already traumatized by personal tragedy. Susan Trainer had protested, shouting at both Cribben and Magda, and had received six strokes of the cane for her trouble. Maurice had smirked when she continued to plead for the little boy and had taken six more strokes, this time across the knuckles of her hand. That had shut her up all right, although she had howled with pain. When Stefan had been brought up from the cellar next day, he was pale and quieter than ever before. He was cowed.
Maurice enjoyed himself at Crickley Hall. He revered Augustus Cribben, who remained the dominant one; even during the canings and scrubbings, the boy was merely his acolyte, his chattel, which suited Maurice fine. And Maurice also enjoyed his secret liaisons and alliance with Magda, even if her body was skin and bones and her breasts were tiny and flat (such imperfections did not bother the boy; his sexual awakening was too glorious for criticism). Life, if a little austere, was good at Crickley Hall and he revelled in it.
But then that interfering busybody Nancy Linnet had come along and tried to spoil things.
59: THUNDER
Loren and Cally were in their room, both of them subdued. Eve had waited 'til Loren returned from school, and then had explained to them both that their brother would not be coming back to them, that he had drowned a year ago when she had lost him in the park. The two sisters had sobbed in their mother's arms for a long time afterwards, but Eve had not wept with them. She did not understand why this was so, only that her thoughts—and heart—were numbed; there were no reserves of emotion left. She knew the certainty of Cam's death should have broken her, but she realized that perhaps she had been broken that first day he'd gone missing. And every single day that followed.
So instead of grieving she had kept herself busy, tidying the house, washing the kitchen floor (so much mud trodden in because of the mucky weather), making the beds, laying new fires in the sitting room and the great hall, anything to keep herself occupied. It wasn't that she didn't think of Cam—his lovely face was a constant image on the screen of her mind, but only partially formed; it was when she closed her eyes that all the colours and features of his face were filled in. She was coping, that was all she could say of herself, but she did not know how long it would last. Until her emotions filled to spilling point once more, she supposed.
Right now, she was preparing her daughters' evening meal while they rested (their crying seemed to have left both girls utterly worn out). As she checked the softness of the boiling potatoes with a sharp knife, she heard the rumbling of distant thunder. Crossing over to the kitchen sink, she leaned forward and peered out of the window.
It was too dark to see much outside but when, after a few seconds, sheet lightning stuttered along the gorge, she saw the swing beneath the big oak rocking from side to side, pitched by strong winds. The bridge was lit up too, and the boiling river that passed under it. Disconcertingly, the water level was high, almost brimming over the top of the riverbank. The sight made her drop the knife into the sink.
The thunder that followed the lightning was much louder now, as if it were rolling round the gorge itself, and its noise made Eve cringe. Gabe. She needed Gabe to be with her. But she had urged him not to drive all the way back from London. He would be weary with all the travelling, plus he must still be shocked, having had to identify Cam's little body (he hadn't told her how their son looked, but she realized that after a year in the water—No! she mustn't think of that, she mustn't try to picture the condition his body would be in!). She insisted that her mind should stay on Gabe. All she knew was that she needed him here, with her and the children. But he shouldn't drive, not all that way, not in this weather. Would he see sense and stay in London?
A fierce gust of wind shook the window and kitchen door, causing Eve to take an involuntary step backwards.
She heard other parts of the house creak, contracting timbers, storm-battered windows, the oaken front door shifting on its hinges. Eve hated this place. Even though it was she who tried to persuade Gabe to stay, she loathed Crickley Hall for what it was: a morgue in which eleven children had perished along with their cruel guardian. You could almost feel the house's pitiful history…
She gave a little shudder. So cold, always so cold here.
The lights suddenly dipped, brightened, dipped again, then became bright once more.
She jumped when a loud crash came from the hall. Walking quickly to the kitchen's inner door, she went out into the hall to see what had made the racket. It happened again, but this time she saw the cause.
The cellar door had swung open, its edge hitting the wood-panelled wall behind. The door began to swing back in rebound, but it stopped halfway and was thrown wide again.
Eve hurried forward, shoes briskly clattering on the stone floor. She caught the door just as it was about to repeat the process and smash into the wall behind it. Holding it still, she looked into the dark cavernous cellar below, the draught that came up the steps from the well strong enough to ruffle her hair. It was silly, but to her the dense blackness there seemed to be pressing upwards as though riding the current of chilled air.
Eve closed the door and locked it, even though she knew it wouldn't stay shut. The key was icy to her touch.
60: THE KILLING
Maurice Stafford had decided another Hennessy was in order—but no more after this one, didn't want his breath to stink of alcohol when he went up to the house—and he had brought it back to his cosy little nook in the inn. He hooked his walking stick over the curved back of his chair.
The pub was getting even busier and he detected a collective nervousness in the drinkers' banter, their occasional laughter just a decibel or two louder than it ought to have been. Oh, they felt comfortable enough inside the bar, but he doubted any one of them was unaware of the storm outside for one single moment. The
He picked up his previous train of thought. One day, Nancy Linnet had arrived at Crickley Hall, sent there by
