The Secret of Crickley Hall

themselves? She could almost hear their small voices pleading with her, but surely that had to be in her own imagination. Was guilt causing her mind to play tricks, inventing these voices because somewhere in her deepest subconscious she felt responsible for them? Why else would she have been gifted—or cursed—with extrasensory powers if not to help lost souls find their way?

With the back of her hand, Lili wiped away a tear that had trickled down her cheek.

She couldn't ignore them. The child spirits were desperate, she could feel their mood. They needed her so badly and she could not refuse them. Suddenly, her determination grew stronger. For the sake of her own peace of mind, she had to do something for them, even if it meant putting herself in danger. And even if Eve's husband didn't want Lili there, she knew she had to go back to Crickley Hall, she had to do what she could for the children.

She sensed that things were stirring in the old house, that secrets were waiting to be exposed. Perhaps when they were, the spirits would find peace. Perhaps she would, too.

Lightning flared and thunder seemed to heave itself at the room's two windows as if to challenge her resolve. Lili trembled, but she would not give in to her fears. She put the wine glass down on the coffee table, then picked up the keys that were in an unused ashtray on the sideboard.

She headed for the door.

64: FLIGHT

Maurice Stafford stared out at the rain through the windscreen of his Ford Mondeo. The storm buffeted the car and bent the trees, the high walls of the gorge creating a natural channel for the wind that came off the moors and tore down to the sea. His car was parked in the short bay close to the bridge that spanned the river leading to Crickley Hall. Debris—branches, foliage, even rocks—was already piling up beneath it and Maurice wondered how long the wooden structure would last before it was smashed and carried away.

Curiously, his Mondeo was the only vehicle in the parking area beside the road; the Caleighs' Range Rover, which had been evident yesterday, was missing. Did that mean the husband was away from home? Maurice had slowed down before turning into the parking area so that he could get a good look at the house across the river and was able to make out a figure in the kitchen. Even at that distance he could see that it was a woman, so it had to be the wife, Eve Caleigh. Well, that was just fine and dandy, because if the man was away, then it would make his own task—his duty—all the more easy.

Something thumped against the Mondeo's windscreen causing Maurice to start. A loose tree branch rattled against the glass for a few moments before it was dislodged by a fresh gust of wind.

A truly dreadful night, he thought, so much like the night he and Magda had fled Crickley Hall in fear for their lives. In the shadows of the car's interior, Maurice grimaced as he remembered.

•

They had run from the house, terrified of the madness they were leaving behind. Augustus Cribben's final descent into total insanity had been swift, the terrible pains in his head driving him there it seemed. Of course, Maurice had come to realize, Augustus was always on the verge of insanity—his ways had never been entirely normal—but circumstances and excruciating pain had combined to throw his brain into a maniacal disorder that had become uncontrollable. Fortunately for them, they had left before the flood-waters had come, before the bridge had been swept away by the river that had risen above its banks, and they staggered into the storm, coatless bodies (there hadn't been time to grab their coats) flailed by rain and tree branches, battered by great billows of wind that almost blew them off their feet. It was a torturous journey that had them clinging to each other, every footstep forced, their bodies bent almost double into the gale.

Magda would not allow them to take shelter, nor even rest a while, for she had a destination in mind and it was far away from Hollow Bay, so far away that she could never be linked with the dreadful things taking place in Crickley Hall that night. Maurice could only be led by her, for he had no one else and did not want to die. Occasionally, he looked up to see Magda's face in profile and it was a mask of misery and horror. Once, she returned his look, as if she had felt his scrutiny, and as lightning strobed, he saw the same madness in her eyes that had been in her brother's: her eyes were wide open, even against the bolts of rain that pelted them, the pupils black and large, and they seemed to have no focus, seemed to stare right through him. The lightning flashes ceased and she was just a dark silhouette. But he could not erase the sight of her derangement from his mind. And as they stumbled, trudged, staggered through the wind and rain, both of them so soaked that they imagined their bones were wet, Maurice came to realize that he had been wrong to think that he had held some power over the Cribbens, that he had some control because he beat and scrubbed Augustus and gave Magda pleasure when they were naked in her bed. He now understood that he had no domination over them at all, he was there to do their bidding, a slave to be rewarded with treats and favours. This was why he would not have been safe back in Crickley Hall with the other children, why he followed Magda so blindly now. Augustus was his master, Magda was his mistress. Without them he was just another parentless child.

They used smaller lanes mainly, where high hedges gave them some protection against the wind, and passed no other person, motorcar or cart as they struggled on. They had travelled several miles when Magda dropped to her knees, then threw herself to the ground.

'Augustus… what have you done?' she wailed, the words torn away by the howling wind.

Maurice knelt on both knees beside her and tugged at her shuddering shoulders.

'Please,' he shouted over the noise of the storm, 'we can't stop! There's nowhere to hide!' He meant nowhere to take cover, but it came out as hide.

She beat at the rough roadway with the heels of her fists, her back juddering as she sobbed. Then, without another sound, she rose to her feet, swaying with the wind. She stared at the boy, but again it was with wide vacant eyes.

'Where are we going?' Maurice pleaded.

But Magda just turned away and walked on as if there had been no interruption to their journey. He quickly caught up and clung to her elbow.

They stopped only twice after that, once when a stout tree branch fell into the lane before them, and again when Maurice tripped over some soft and sodden creature—a rabbit or small fox—lying dead in a puddle on the ground.

Although their weather-hindered journey must have taken several hours, Maurice had lost all sense of time and was surprised when they reached the outskirts of a town. There were no streetlights or gaslights in this part of the country and only a few upstairs windows were lit as they made their way along the road. Magda's bent body was stiff and she seemed to be walking mechanically, like a wind-up toy. She spoke not a word to him, but when they came upon the deserted railway station, he at last understood that this had been their destination all along. The station master's quarters and the ticket office were closed, for these were now the very early hours of the morning, but Magda led Maurice through a side gate and along to the very end of the platform where there was a backless bench. Despite the exposure, she sat them both down and Maurice huddled against her for protection. She remained stiff, upright now, her back ramrod straight, ignoring the boy, lost in her own breakdown.

Leaning close to her ear, Maurice asked, 'Are we catching the train? Are we going to London?'

There was no response, but he assumed that was the idea, to get back to the city where no one would find them and no one could blame them for what had happened in Crickley Hall—and he was, after all, only a child. Maurice saw no future beyond that.

As the hours moved on to dawn, the storm abated and the winds died. They weren't to know that the gorge and Hollow Bay had been flooded and that there was no one left at Crickley Hall to bear witness to what had taken place there. No, Maurice and Magda were in their own world, Maurice drenched and shivering, hunched up as close to Magda as he could get, she still staring straight ahead, also drenched but her body rigid, her face expressionless, features hard as if made of stone.

As often was the case in the aftermath of a heavy storm, the morning was bright and clear, the smell of raw damp earth heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance there came the clang-clang of a fire-engine bell.

Still they waited and the sun began to dry out their clothes a little. Eventually, someone strolled out of the ticket office onto the platform, but it was too far away for the man to see them properly. As the hours went by, more people arrived on the platform, but none wandered down to the far end. Only Maurice was looking—Magda