Gabe stood and went to the inner door. 'Now not another peep outa you. Be a pal and go to sleep.'
As soon as Gabe shut the door behind him, the wailing began again, only this time it was even more agitated. He heard Chester scratching at the kitchen's inner door. Gabe went back, threw open the door and scooped the dog up in his arms.
'Just for tonight, Chester,' he told the dog as he headed for the stairs, flashlight shining ahead. 'Tomorrow you're on your own, understand? No more howling, no more looking moon-eyed at me. Tomorrow night you stay down here no matter what ruckus you kick up. I'm serious, mutt, you can caterwaul as much as you like, but you're staying in the kitchen. If I leave you in the hall you'll be up the stairs, so that's just not gonna happen. You hear me, Chester?' He lifted one of the dog's ears when he made the last remark, but Chester only snuggled further against him.
Gabe had kept his voice low as he chastised the mongrel, but firm enough to let him know he meant business. Halfway across the flagstone floor with Chester's head nestling in the crook of one arm, the other supporting the dog's hindquarters as well as directing the flashlight, Gabe suddenly hopped onto one foot.
'What the hell…?'
His foot had splashed into a puddle on the floor. He manoeuvred the flashlight so that he could look down at his feet and, sure enough, there was a small puddle of water there. He must have missed it earlier on his way to the kitchen because he'd been diverted towards the cellar. He also became aware of that now-familiar musty, damp odour that was so prevalent in the cellar: it had invaded the hall itself.
Swinging the light beam up towards the high ceiling, he searched for any damp patches, reasoning that the fierce rain outside had found a way into the attic area (which had not yet been inspected) and was dripping through the floor. The great iron chandelier threw eerie shadows onto the ceiling, like a giant spider's legs; but there were no wet patches or stains up there.
Still wondering at its cause, Gabe skirted the small pool of water on the floor and made for the stairs, Chester still shivering in his arms. And when he reached the stairs, he came to a halt again.
There was another tiny puddle in the middle of the third step. Another on the small square landing turn.
Avoiding the first stair puddle, he made his way up, stopping once more at the turn. He shone the flashlight up the second, longer flight of stairs.
There seemed to be small puddles on every second or third step. He wondered how he'd missed them on his way down.
8: HOLLOW BAY
They left the dog behind in Crickley Hall because they intended to have lunch in Hollow Bay's pub/restaurant (the previous week, when Gabe and Vern had taken a break from moving furniture and other essential items into Crickley Hall, they had sampled Barnaby Inn's fare and Gabe highly recommended it; he also favoured the local brew) and they didn't know the management's policy regarding customers bringing pets into the establishment.
The inn was certainly quaint, with its white walls, thatched roof, leaded windows and outside hanging lamps that were lit due to the day's dusk-like gloom. It would certainly have been a tourist magnet had the indigenous population not been so stranger-shy; the locals seemed to set more store in privacy than financial gain for, although it was late in the season and the weather was foul, there should have been more people on the two streets of the village than there were today—those few they did meet along the 'promenade' were certainly not holidaymakers, to judge by their sensible if dour attire.
Although the few shops and many of the houses looked pleasant enough in their pastel pinks and blues, the majority of them white-fronted, on closer inspection it could be noticed that the paintwork was flaky and cracked in places, the decoration tired and weather-worn, the woodwork chipped. Most windows were dark and uninviting, as if concealing their tenants, only one or two orange with the glows of autumn hearth fires. Rainwater gushed along gutters and pooled round overworked drains, sodden October leaves piling into heaps that blocked the gratings. The single teashop—perhaps the village's only deference to the sightseer—that Gabe and his family passed on their journey to the inn seemed dingy and unappealing, its fluorescent lighting too harsh, and drab lace half-curtains hung from a tarnished brass rail across the long window-front as if privacy was more important than invitation.
Fortunately, the Barnaby Inn, with its smoky-yellow walls and broad, sturdy posts rising to a low, beamed ceiling, a roaring log fire in the large inglenook fireplace at one end of the room, had proved a welcome retreat from the dismal mood of the harbour village itself (possibly the downpour negatively influenced their judgement).
Eve had at least tried to convince herself that overcast skies and constant fall of chilled rain, together with the great steel-grey expanse of the Bristol Channel whose waters lapped at the harbour wall, all conspired to render the village joyless and somehow, if it could be said of a place, sullen. Or was her own morbid depression tainting everything she saw and felt?
The only thing that slightly spoilt the pub's welcoming atmosphere was the hard stares they received from the customers inside when the family bustled in, dripping water onto the rubber entrance mat and voicing their relief to be out of the rain. They were boldly watched as Gabe guided Eve and the girls to a cushioned benchseat against a wall, a long wooden table between it and two hard-backed chairs.
'We don't loik strangers 'roind ere,' Gabe whispered to Eve in an awful version of the West Country accent as he pulled out one of the chairs for her. At least she smiled when she shushed him.
The other customers returned to their conversations and brews, little warmth or further interest coming from them.
However, the barmaid, who had short chestnut-coloured hair and a dazzling smile, was courteous and friendly as she reeled off the two specials of the day to them from her position behind the bar, and the food, when it arrived, was both tasty and abundant. Even Loren, who was a picky eater at the best of times and who had groaned when the huge plate of sea bass with chips and peas was placed in front of her, finished nearly every last morsel. The sea air and the long walk down to the village were obviously doing wonders for her appetite, Eve thought to herself, pleased by the transition. Gabe relished the local brew again (he and Vern had sunk several pints of Tawny Bitter between them on their earlier visit, the hard graft of lifting and unloading stuff back at Crickley Hall engendering a special kind of thirst), while Eve stuck to tonic water (she used to enjoy good wines, but hadn't touched alcohol in almost a year), the girls orange and lemonade mixed (Loren's idea of a sophisticated drink, Cally copying her big sister).
When Gabe returned to the bar for a refill and another tonic for Eve, a thickset man with a florid face and greying hair appeared from a doorway behind the counter. He had the air of a landlord or manager and it was he who served Gabe.
'Passin' through, is it?' the man asked conversationally as he drew the pint.
'Uh-uh, I'm working in these parts for a short while, coupla months mebbe,' Gabe replied. 'Staying up at Crickley Hall.'
The beer flowed over the lip of the glass into a hidden sink below the bar as the man stared at him.
Wait a bit, Gabe thought. I've seen this movie. Isn't this where the ruddy-faced local warns him to keep clear of the old house up there on the hill? 'Strange things 'appen up there at the 'all.'
But the barman merely pushed back the pump and righted the glass. He smiled pleasantly as he placed the ale on the bar mat in front of Gabe and said, 'Dreadful weather we're havin' lately. Must have rained for three weeks solid now. Hope it don't spoil yer stay.'