Eve turned several pages, glancing at the names and punishments, the latter of which were marked down 4, 6 or 10, presumably denoting the number of strokes of the cane that were dealt out each time.
‘It goes on page after page,’ remarked Gabe as he returned the cane to the table. ‘Seems not a day went by without some of the kids being disciplined. Percy tells me there were other kinds of penalties for misbehaviour too, like making the kids stand on one spot in the hall all day, wearing nothing but their underwear.’
‘Nancy tol’ me about the punishments.’ Percy shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘She said the children often went without food for the day, or was forced to take cold baths. Sometimes, when Cribben were in a rage, he laid about them with the thick leather belt he always wore, but mostly he used the stick. Nancy tried to put a stop to it, but the Cribbens wouldn’t listen, said the kiddies was being purified, atonin’ for their sins, like.’
Eve considered the page she had stopped at. ‘This boy Stefan Rosenbaum is mentioned more than most; he seems to be on nearly every page. Didn’t you tell me he was Polish and could hardly speak any English? Wasn’t he just five years old?’
The old gardener nodded. ‘Five years.’ Foive yers, it sounded like.
‘But why was he punished so much? Was he that naughty?’
‘None of ’em was, Missus Caleigh. They was all good kiddies. Bit lively when they first arrived, but that were soon knocked out of ’em. No, Cribben had a special dislikin’ for the little Polish boy.’
‘Turn towards the middle of the book,’ Gabe advised Eve and she did so.
The handwriting had changed: it was looser, sometimes a scrawl, sometimes too big, sometimes almost illegible. Still it went on, though, and she turned more pages, the handwriting changing dramatically as if the author was gradually becoming deranged, the punishments becoming more severe and more frequent. Soon it seemed like the hand of a lunatic. Ten strokes of the cane, fifteen, twenty. And Stefan Rosenbaum’s name came up consistently. A five-year-old boy being beaten like this! Why Stefan, why so cruel to him in particular?
As if reading her mind, Gabe said, ‘Now move on to some of the later pages. You’ll see Cribben’s handwriting gets even worse, like he’s totally flipped. And you’ll see why he picked on this kid Stefan so much.’
Eve leafed through the pages faster, no longer reading each individual record, absorbing the pages as a whole. And then she got to it. The true reason for punishing the same boy over and over again.
The scrawl had descended to an erratic scratching by now. But the word that stunned Eve was clear enough, for it was in spiky capital letters and gave the reason why Stefan Rosenbaum had been constantly punished. It simply said:
31: THE PHOTOGRAPH
The word had been written crudely, almost brutally, as if its author was enraged – no, was disturbed, mentally disturbed – and the contempt it revealed was so unequivocal that Eve was shocked. She actually gasped.
‘How could he . . .?’ The words petered out.
Percy leaned towards her, one bony and callused hand resting on the table between them. ‘There’s some people, them what went through the last world war, who like to forget it, don’t like to be reminded of how the Jews was hated in them days. Lotsa people even blamed the war on the Jews, thought Hitler had the right idea when he tried to rid Germany an’ other countries of ’em. An’ that kind of bigotry ran through all classes, rich or poor. Even some royalty shook hands with Hitler afore the war got started.’
‘But . . . but Augustus Cribben was a teacher,’ Eve protested. ‘And he was a guardian of the children. How could he be a bigot? His background must have been checked by the Ministry of Education and whoever was in charge of evacuation. Surely his sentiments would have been discovered.’
‘How?’ argued Gabe. ‘They’d hardly ask him if he had a thing against Jews, would they? And even if they did, he only had to lie.’
‘Oh, Cribben and his sister knew how to play the part, all right,’ put in Percy. ‘They was admired an’ respected when they first came to Hollow Bay. They was looked upon as righteous folk; a little bit unsociable, mind, a little bit standoffish, but otherwise upstanding people as fer as the locals was concerned. Our vicar in them days were certainly impressed with ’em, like I told yer afore, missus. The Cribbens could do no wrong as fer as old Reverend Rossbridger were concerned. That’s what broke him when the rumours went about after the flood.’
Eve shook her head in dismay. ‘But to victimize this young boy just because he was Jewish. How did Cribben get away with it?’
‘Things that went on inside these walls was kep’ secret. Who would the kiddies tell? They was kep’ away from outsiders an’ when they was seen – like goin’ to church Sunday mornin’s – they was always behaved, never spoke to no one. But they couldn’t help the way they looked, couldn’t hide the misery on their faces. Course, people hereabouts jus’ thought the orphans was well disciplined an’ didn’t look any further than that. Folks didn’t want to, the war brought ’em problems of their own.’
Percy’s hand dropped to his lap again and he wrung his cap out as if in regret.
‘Cribben and his sister, Magda, had the kiddies trained, y’see. Nobody could tell if there were anythin’ wrong with ’em, save they was quieter than the local children would ever be. Cribben even had me rig up the swing that’s still in the garden today so anyone passin’ by would see the kiddies enjoyin’ ’emselves. He only let them out there two at a time, mind, an’ that were only at weekends. My Nancy told me it were Magda Cribben’s idea, lettin’ the kids play outside. She knew the things goin’ on inside Crickley Hall weren’t right, but she supported her brother. Afraid of him too. But her heart were stone. In her own way she were worse then him, ’cause she were a woman an’ should’ve had more compassion for the orphans. Well, she pushed ’emon that swing, only it were like another punishment for ’em when nobody were passin’ by. She pushed ’em too hard an’ too high, so in the end they was terrified. An’ Magda, she liked that, liked to see ’em cryin’ ’cause they was terrified.’
Eve closed the Punishment Book and put it back on the table. Gabe slipped a hand round her waist, aware of her distress.
‘So, they were all badly treated,’ she said grimly, ‘but little Stefan suffered most of all just because of his race.’
Percy nodded, then picked up the photograph that had been lying on the table in front of him. He held it out to Eve. ‘You only had to see Cribben an’ his sister to know they was wicked. This were took afore Nancy left Crickley Hall. You can see fer yourself how unhappy the orphans was.’
Eve was almost reluctant to take the photograph; she already had enough grief of her own without looking for more. Her hand trembled slightly as she examined the old creased black-and-white picture, and she realized her heart was racing. It had been a traumatic and disappointing morning, and now this.
Percy came round the table to stand beside her so that he, too, could look at the photograph. Gabe dropped his hand from Eve’s waist, although he remained close to her. He had seen the photograph earlier, but he was still drawn towards its images.
It was an eight-by-six print, probably taken with an old-fashioned glass-plate camera, the negative as large as the picture itself, and it showed two rows of children, the taller ones at the back, with two adults sitting on chairs in the centre of the front row. The orphans and their guardians were outside on the lawn, Crickley Hall’s big front door plainly visible behind them. The images were extremely sharp and the contrast stark, the black areas quite dense.
Eve suppressed a shudder when she gazed at Augustus Cribben and his sister Magda.
The man could have been anywhere between forty and sixty years of age. His hair, which was bushy on top, but apparently razor-shaved at the sides, was completely white, while his bushy eyebrows were dark. He sat ramrod-straight on his chair, a lean man with high cheekbones that emphasized hollow cheeks. Large ears, accentuated by his crop
ped hair, stood at right-angles from a severe face. His nose was prominent above a grim slash of a mouth. Beneath those bushy eyebrows were deep-set black eyes that stared stonily at the camera. There was no humour in that harsh, sober face and no softness, and perhaps because of what she already knew of the guardian, there appeared to be no pity.
Cribben wore a tight-fitting tweed suit, one button done up at the chest so that the sides of the jacket fell away to reveal the shiny buckle of a thick leather belt. His shoulders were narrow and the hands that rested over his knees were big-knuckled, arthritic-looking. The tidy knot of his plain tie did not quite reach the stud of the high, white, detachable collar of his striped shirt; the jaw above the collar was strong and square, although the little that could be seen of his neck was thin and scrawny.
Next to this slight yet formidable figure sat a hard-faced woman, who presumably was Cribben’s sister, Magda. There was a resemblance between them, for the eyes were black and deep-set, and seemed to regard the camera with suspicion. Like her brother’s, Magda’s nose was prominent, as was her chin, and her lips were thin and severe. High cheekbones and rigidity of posture completed the similarity.
Her matt black hair was parted in the middle and scraped back over her ears, presumably into a bun at the back of her neck. She wore a long black dress that was gathered at the waist, and hemmed just above black lace-up ankle boots.
Eve allowed her eyes to roam away from Augustus Cribben and his sister, both of whom seemed to dominate the assemblage, and they fell upon the girl – the young woman – at the end of the back row.
‘Is this the teacher you told me about?’ she asked Percy, her thumb indicating. ‘You called her Nancy . . .’
‘Aye, that’s Nancy Linnet, may her poor soul rest in peace.’
‘You think she is dead?’
‘I know she is.’
Eve looked at the girl whose shiny hair fell in tumbling locks round a sweet childlike face. Over her shoulders she wore a shawl, the ends of which covered her forearms, and Eve remembered Percy telling her that the teacher, his sweetheart, had a withered arm: was Nancy deliberately covering up the deformity? The teacher’s eyes were large and pale and, although she wasn’t smiling, there was no meanness in them – but no joy either.
In fact, no one in the photograph was smiling. All the children were like little waifs, solemn before the camera, no spirit to their expressions or their stance. But wait – there was one boy with not a smile but a grin on his long face that revealed a missing front tooth. He stood at the back near the middle of the line and was taller than all the other children, as tall as Nancy Linnet.
Eve pointed as she angled the photograph towards the old gardener. ‘Is this the boy called . . .’ She tried to recall the name Percy had mentioned.
‘Maurice Stafford,’ Percy replied. ‘Yers, he could afford to smile, that boy.’
‘He’s the only one who looks happy,’ observed Gabe, leaning over Eve’s shoulder.
Percy nodded. ‘His is the only name yer won’t find in that Punishment Book. He were old for his age, he were, and the only one that Nancy never liked, said he were a sneak and a bully. Maurice were treated different from the others. I don’t say he had it easy, but fer some reason Cribben an’ his sister favoured him.’
‘Which one is the Jewish boy Stefan?’ Eve asked, although she was sure she had already spotted him.
Percy confirmed her choice. ‘Right there in the front row, the smallest of ’em all. He’s standin’ in front of the tall girl, Susan Trainer, who looked out for the boy, sorta took him under her wing, like. See, she’s got her hand on his shoulder.’
Stefan Rosenbaum wore baggy short trousers that covered his knees, his socks round his ankles. He was a thin child and his jacket, which was done up at the front with three buttons, was at least two sizes too big for him. His thick dark hair hung low over his brow and his eyes were wonderfully deep but melancholy. He had an elfin look. Like the other orphans, his face was solemn, yet there was a beauty about him that reminded Eve of her lost son, Cameron. Even though this boy was dark in looks where Cam was fair – yellow hair, bright blue eyes – they both possessed the same kind of innocence. As renewed despair struck her, she quickly gave the photograph back to Percy. She turned towards Gabe who, although taken aback, held her gently.
To Percy, he said: ‘Those two kids – what was it, Maurice . . .?’
‘Stafford,’ the aged gardener filled in for him.
‘Right. Maurice Stafford. I don’t remember seeing his name, nor Stefan Rosenbaum’s, among the headstones down at the cemetery.’
‘No, yer wouldn’t. It’s ’cause they was the two whose bodies was never found. It’s reckoned they were swept out to sea by the river that runs underneath Crickley Hall. The Low River.’ Percy shook his head gravely. ‘They jus’ disappeared,’ he said. ‘The sea never gave ’em up.’
32: LILI PEEL
Lili brought the glass to her lips and swallowed the wine rather than sipped. Its fruity sweetness failed to elevate her mood.
The room in which she sat was lit by only a single corner lamp, so that shadows filled the other corners. Her living quarters were above the crafts shop: three main rooms, one of them a bedroom, another, the smallest, used as a stockroom for goods not yet displayed in the shop downstairs; the third was her living/dining room where she relaxed or worked on delicate stone, shell or crystal jewellery and trinkets, using the dining table as a workbench. Both the kitchen and bathroom were tiny, the latter accommodating a small sink, toilet and shower basin (there was no room for a bath). The walls throughout were painted in soft pastel shades, and oddly, given Lili’s profession, there were no pictures adorning them, nor ornaments or statuary on shelves to take away from the plainness of it all.
Listlessly, she rested the stem of the wine glass on the arm of the brown leather chair she occupied and closed her eyes for a moment.
Why did this woman have to come to her? she silently asked herself with a bitter kind of anger.
Lili had curbed her psychic abilities eighteen months ago, frightened by her own powers and their consequences. Some things were best left well alone; some things could bite back. How strange that the woman, this Eve Caleigh, should come from the same house that Lili had stopped to observe on her way out of Hollow Bay two years ago. Crickley Hall. People in these parts maintained it was haunted, the woman in the village shop had confided. The two women who cleaned and dusted the place every month would only work the rooms together; neither one was willing to be alone in any part of the house. They claimed that Crickley Hall had an ‘atmosphere’, a creepy mood to it that made a person feel jittery. That was why no tenants had ever stayed long in it over the years. The house didn’t welcome people.
At the time, Lili had mentally rolled her eyes. It seemed to her that every community postulated its own haunted house and it was usually for no other reason than that something tragic or traumatic had once occurred within its walls (often a cruel murder or a dramatic suicide) and now a ghost roamed its corridors. In truth, Lili did believe in ghosts because of her own experiences with the supernatural, but she also knew that many people exaggerated or embellished such phenomena for the vicarious thrill that came with the telling.
Nonetheless, Lili had not just noticed Crickley Hall when she left the harbour village, as she had told Eve Caleigh. No, she had parked her car and studied the house across the bridge for several minutes. She had sensed its chill.
It was not merely the ugliness of the building itself that weighed upon her, but it was because there seemed to be – or at least, she sensed – something bad at its very core. The unease remained with her for some time afterwards.
That was one of the more unpleasant sides of being psychic: the inability to prevent bad vibes from penetrating one’s own psyche. It was an affliction she had borne since childhood.
Lili first became aware of her sixth sense when she was seven years old, although there may well have been earlier ps
ychic occurrences that she regarded as perfectly natural when she was even younger. She had moved with her family into a large Victorian house in Reigate, Surrey, and her bedroom had been at the very top of the three-floor building. Soon after moving in, the spirit of a girl, no more than nine or ten years old in appearance, had manifested itself as Lili played with her dolls in her bedroom. Although so young – or perhaps because she was so young – Lili had immediately, and without any fear, accepted that the girl, who wore old-fashioned clothing, was neither of Lili’s own world, nor of her own time. It was all perfectly reasonable to her, even though she could not recall any similar event in her past. Being an only child, she welcomed this new playmate into her home. The stranger never touched anything of Lili’s, but would sit attentively on her heels while Lili showed and named every one of her dolls and cuddly fur animals and related little stories about them. Sometimes Lili sang her ethereal friend a short song and then the other girl would sing one of her own. Some of these Lili had heard before, for many nursery rhymes are timeless.
The girl informed Lili that she was called Agnes and that she had died in this same room from something they called diphtheria a long time ago, and ever since she’d been dead, she hadn’t known where she was supposed to go. Her death had been sudden after only four days of the illness and she had risen from her proper body to see her mother wailing on her knees beside the bed as her father stood stiffly by with just one teardrop running down his cheek. Agnes had been confused and frightened for a long while afterwards and she had not dared to leave the house for fear of becoming lost. She had gradually come to accept her condition and, although no longer afraid, she still preferred to keep within the walls of the only home she had ever known.