The Secret of Crickley Hall

She was still in an emotional daze from news of her son's death, although outwardly, and for the sake of her daughters, she appeared calm and collected. She waited for the other person to speak.

'Mrs Caleigh?' the big man queried even though he knew full well who she was. 'Gordon Pyke. We met yesterday.' He was puzzled by the lack of expression on her face, but nevertheless he smiled warmly.

'Mr Pyke,' she said at last.

A cold draught wrapped itself round her body and rain spat at her through the doorway.

'Yes,' he confirmed again. 'You and your husband agreed that I should come back tonight to make tests.'

'Tests? I'm sorry…'

'May I come in? I'm afraid the storm is rather fierce.'

Eve stepped aside as he hoisted the suitcase and came into the house. She was too confused—and her senses were too blunted—to object.

'You do remember, Mrs Caleigh?' Pyke took off his little hat and smacked rain from it against his thigh. He rested the brown leather suitcase on the stone-flagged floor.

Eve shut the front door, exerting pressure as the wind fought to keep it open. Although they could hear the gale outside and the rain lashing the high window, it became comparatively quiet inside the grand hall.

'Yes, of course,' she said distractedly in answer to his question. 'But I didn't expect you…' Her words trailed off.

'Oh yes, that was the arrangement. Your husband was rather keen that I help you with your problem.'

'Problem?'

'The suspected haunting. I'm here to look into the matter. There are no ghosts here, I can assure you of that.' Pyke was sticking to the line he'd used on Gabe Caleigh, that of a pragmatic sceptic. 'Even better,' he added, 'I'll prove it to you.'

His natural smile was disarming. He indicated the dripping suitcase. 'If I could just set up my equipment? I promise I won't get in anybody's way.' He beamed his kind eyes on her and the smile beneath his small, grey-streaked beard was warm, charming. Somehow, understanding. She caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath. 'We need to agree on what rooms can be off-limits to you and your family once I've prepared them. I'll have cameras and sound-recorders in them, you see. And instruments for measuring movement and pressure change. Also, don't be surprised if you find talcum powder sprinkled on the floor or furniture. It's for possible footprints and handprints. Quite easy to vacuum up afterwards.'

'I'm sorry, it's not…' Eve was going to say, it's not convenient, but the word was hardly apt for the circumstances. 'We've—we've had very bad news today,' she finished lamely.

'Oh, my dear Mrs Caleigh, I'm so sorry.' His sympathy sounded perfectly genuine. 'Is there anything I can do?'

She shook her head dispiritedly. 'No. Thank you. It's my little boy. I told you yesterday that he'd been missing for a long time and today we learned that—that he's gone for ever. He's dead.'

'Dear God. That's dreadful.' One of Pyke's big hands reached out and rested on Eve's shoulder for a moment, its pressure light. 'Would you like to talk to me about your son?'

He wondered why her eyes were not puffy from crying. She seemed to be taking her loss surprisingly well. But then her tone of voice suggested that her mind was in another place. It was not that unusual for the shock of sudden tragedy or bereavement to numb a person's feelings, dull their senses, so that they appear detached and withdrawn rather than mortified.

'That's very kind of you,' she replied solemnly, 'but no, I've spent most of the evening talking to my daughters about Cam—that's my son's name—and now they, we, need time to grieve.'

'How are your daughters taking it?' Pyke oozed concern.

'Loren's terribly upset—that's the older one you helped yesterday.'

He nodded.

'And Cally,' Eve continued. 'Well, she cried a bit, but she's too young to understand…' Her voice trailed away again.

'How old is Loren? She's twelve, I think you told me.'

'Yes, just twelve. She's with Cally in their bedroom now, trying to deal with it. She's putting on a brave face for me, I think.'

'Is your husband not at home?' Pyke already knew Mr Caleigh wasn't, but there was no harm in checking.

'Gabe's still in London. He had to identify the body. I hope he's all right.'

Excellent, thought Pyke. 'You know, yesterday he was very keen for me to carry out an investigation into the unaccountable disturbances in this house. Despite your mutual grief, I'm sure he would have wanted me to carry on. If I'm successful—which I know I shall be—in providing proof to you that Crickley Hall is not haunted by ghosts, it will be one less thing for you to concern yourself with.'

Eve thought of telling Pyke about last night, how she had nearly drowned in the bath, strong hands seeming to push her down, submerge her in the water whose surface had turned to ice, but did not have the energy to explain the inexplicable. Pyke was on a fool's errand—she, herself, had witnessed too many weird things in this house for there to be rational explanations—but she was too weary, too played out, to try and convince him.

He was still babbling on, but she barely took in a word he was saying. She didn't even consider him insensitive, so sincere did he appear to be.

'I promise you'll hardly know I'm here. I'd start at the top of the house, the attic room from where you said you heard running feet, then I'd be interested in examining the cellar, which may be the root cause of some extraneous noises you've been hearing. The well, the underground river, damaged or worn foundations and all that. Do you have decent architect's plans of Crickley Hall, by the way? No? They might have helped me, but never mind.'

Eve's will had been wearied by grief. She cast her eyes downwards as if deliberating, while in truth all she was thinking about was her dead son. Her thoughts were interrupted by a small voice from the stairway.

'What does the man want, Mummy?'

Cally had a frown on her podgy face as she stood hand in hand with Loren on the square landing at the turn of the stairs. She was in her pink pyjamas, while her big sister was wearing a light-blue nightie that hung down to her bare ankles.

'This is Mr Pyke,' Eve told her patiently; she had hoped Cally would be fast asleep by now. 'He's come to see about all those strange noises we've been hearing. He wants to make it all right.'

'Good,' proclaimed Cally. 'I hate the noises because there's no one there. I like the lights though.'

Pyke didn't know what lights the little girl was referring to. But his attention was on Loren. His smile contained both delight and sympathy, his kindly eyes the secret of the trick.

'Hello, Mr Pyke.' Loren managed to raise a smile. Her face was blotchy from dried tears and her eyelids were red-rimmed. Her shoulders were slightly hunched forward, another outward sign of her anguish. She looked very vulnerable.

Eve quietly called across the hall to her youngest daughter. 'Cally, you need to be in bed sleeping.'

'I'm too sad to sleep, Mummy. Is the man going to make the noises go away?' She rubbed an eye with a knuckle.

Eve turned back to Pyke. 'I'm not sure—' Again she was interrupted.

'Mrs Caleigh. Eve. Your husband was quite definite.'

'But not right now, not tonight.'

'I'm afraid I'm going away in a few days,' he lied. 'Tonight is the only time I'll be available. I promise I'll have answers for you by tomorrow morning. I won't even have to stay here overnight if you don't want me to, although that would be preferable. I only have to arrange my paraphernalia, a camera here, a sound-recorder there, a length of cotton across a doorway somewhere else. All I require is a couple of hours or so. You can go up to your bed without worrying about me—I can let myself out and come back early in the morning if you'd rather I didn't stay.' Yes, it would make everything easier if they were sleeping; that was the original plan anyway.