but now individually owned. They were remote, set back from the main road and reached only by a rough track. In today's market, estate agents would refer to them as
Inside the cottage, which was at the end of the row, Percy sat in his tiny living room in front of a roaring fire, his outstretched slippered feet almost in the hearth, while the storm outside raged, shaking windows and rattling the room's front door like some weather-beaten traveller seeking refuge for the night. He was warm and comfortable, settled there in his old, favourite (and only) armchair, a mug of cocoa in one hand, a self-rolled cigarette in the other.
With no faith in the electricity supply in such extreme weather (power cuts in the district were not infrequent when conditions were bad), Percy had lit two oil lamps, one of which stood on the inside sill of a window, the second on the room's centre table. They and the fire in the grate gave the room a cosy glow; yet despite appearances, the old man felt uneasy.
He was wary of this kind of weather for, although he had been away on National Service with the army when the flood of '43 had occurred, he had heard so many first-hand accounts of that night he felt almost as if he had been through it himself. And last time, he remembered being told, the rainfall had been heavy but not as consistent as these past weeks. Not that he had cause to be afraid: this row of low-roofed cottages was high up on the hill that ran down to Hollow Bay and well away from the river itself. No, it was the properties that stood on either side of the river-banks and the village itself that were in danger should the worst happen.
A mewling caught his attention. The dog was curled up on the rug in front of the fire, inches away from Percy's feet, and it suddenly looked towards the door. It whimpered and turned its head towards Percy, then back at the door again.
'Not tonight, fellah,' he said to the dog in a low gentle voice. 'It's a wild 'un out there, too stormy fer me to be takin' yer out. Jus' settle down now.'
But the animal was fidgety, restless. It uncurled itself and aligned its body so that it directly faced the door that rattled and shook in its frame. It gave a sharp yelp.
'Hush now. Nothin' to be getting' excited about. Yer been out once tonight, no need to go out again, not 'til it's time fer bed.'
Percy flicked the last of his cigarette into the fire and reached down to pat the dog's back reassuringly.
The dog whined.
'What's troublin' yer, lad? Hear a fox out there?'
A shuttering flash of lightning filled the room's two small windows and thunder cracked so loudly overhead that both man and dog flinched. The dog jumped up and ran to the door as if desperate to escape the close confines of the living room. It whimpered frenziedly as it scratched at the wood.
When it stood back and gave a long howling moan, a deep sense of foreboding came over Percy. There was something
62: FRIENDLY EYES
Maurice drained the brandy, unable to make it last any longer. He smiled to himself as he remembered the day he and Magda had dumped the young teacher's corpse into the well. At that stage he'd felt little fear, only a frisson of excitement and an anxiousness to please Magda and Augustus Cribben. The troublesome Miss Linnet was out of their lives and nobody was any the wiser. Magda had covered up the murder perfectly: even the children believed the teacher had abruptly left for London without saying goodbye because of urgent family matters. They had missed her, sure enough, moping for days afterwards, and Susan Trainer was the worst. She was profoundly disappointed in Miss Linnet and spoke to no one for a week, but even she thought that the teacher had abandoned them and returned to the city. The school authorities had merely been miffed at the teacher's unprofessionalism and, what with the war going on and all, they had made no effort to contact her or, if they had, they hadn't tried very hard, nor for very long.
Magda had not told her brother the full story, had just kept up the pretence that Miss Linnet had absented herself. Augustus was not concerned: he was relieved that she was gone.
Scrubbing the cellar and boiler-room floor had been a bothersome chore, but Magda and Maurice had worked at it together. After they had cleaned the relevant areas, they had swept dust back over them so that the lighter patches would not stand out. No one would ever know what had happened down there, least of all Augustus.
Maurice smiled to himself again. Magda had kept her promise to reward him that night, though her reactions as ever were mechanical and her orgasms without abandonment. She never once lost her breath. At least he had learned from her. As he had learned from Augustus. Yes, Augustus had taught him the exquisite pleasure and the power of inflicting pain. It was just a pity that the psychiatrist who had had Maurice sectioned when he was a young adult did not appreciate or understand such joys.
Maurice's smile turned sour at that point. Some things are best forgotten.
Pulling back his shirtcuff, he checked his wristwatch. Time to go. Time he made his way up to Crickley Hall.
He stood and shrugged on his raincoat. Allowing the walking stick to take some of the weight off his left leg, Maurice leaned to pick up his hat from the table. He put it on, then lifted the empty brandy glass.
As he went by, he placed it on the bar.
•
Sam Pennelly, landlord of the Barnaby Inn, broke off his conversation with two local lads at the other end of the bar and sauntered down to where the customer had just left the glass.
'Thank you, sir,' he called after the tall man who was limping towards the pub door. 'Now you take care if yer drivin'. Some roads might be flooded already.'
The tall man turned his head and in acknowledgement touched the brim of the funny little hat he wore. The landlord smiled back, thinking what friendly eyes his customer had.
A gust of wind drove heavy rain through the door when the customer opened it and the landlord watched as Maurice Stafford pulled the hat with the small feather sticking out of the headband more firmly down on his head before stepping out into the storm.
63: INNOCENTS
It was no good. She couldn't put them out of her mind. Not Eve and her family (although their predicament did weigh on her conscience), but the children who had perished in Crickley Hall. Lili could not stop thinking about them.
Their spirits were troubled and Lili sensed only she, or someone else with her gift, could help them. But she did not know how.
Why were they bound to that miserable intimidating house? Why hadn't their spirits passed over peacefully? Was it because they were still traumatized by their own deaths? Was something holding them there in a lonely neverworld of fear, were they somehow dominated by another force, one that was malign? She had felt it herself, had been terrified when it almost materialized in front of her and Eve. She dreaded the thought of facing it again.
But the children. They needed her help. She was convinced of it. But she had vowed never again to put herself in that position. And what if she did and next time it was the ghost of Marion that manifested itself? Would that be as terrifying? She couldn't help cringing in her chair as lightning flashed and thunder roared overhead.
Lili poured another glass of wine and her hand shook as she brought it to her lips. Oh God, help me, tell me what I should do. Those poor innocents should not have to suffer any more. They had been tied to Crickley Hall for more than half a century, they should be allowed to continue their journey. They shouldn't be afraid ever again. But how could she help them, what could she do?
A sob escaped her. Why was she so drawn to Crickley Hall? What was calling her from there? The children
