He stood away from the old mangle, shaking his head in amused wonder, then turned to leave the boiler room. As he did so, the tip of his boot hit something hard and sent it scudding a couple of feet across the dusty floor with a sharp grating noise. He stooped to pick it up and discovered it was a two-foot length of hard metal, two inches or so wide with a round hole at its centre and bevelled edges. It looked like some integral part of a machine, but Gabe had no idea what. He hefted it in his free hand, feeling its weight. Maybe it came from some old gardening machinery, he considered, or maybe—
The small cry came from somewhere next door, barely audible over the noise of the rushing underground river at the bottom of the well. Quickly he stepped through the doorway into the main cellar and heard the faint voice again. Most parents are attuned to the sound of their own child's cry and Gabe was no exception. Cally was calling to him and there was something urgent in her voice.
'Daddy! Daddy! Mummy says come—' there was a short break while she remembered the last words—'right away!'
Gabe tossed the metal bar aside and hurried towards the narrow staircase that led from the cellar.
4: PERCY JUDD
She was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, a hand holding open the cellar door, her small tousled head poking through, obviously heeding his warning never to go down on her own. Gabe climbed the stairs rapidly, poor light overhead and his flashlight lighting the way, and Cally took a step backwards, frightened by the grimness of his expression.
'What's wrong, Cally?' he asked even before he reached the top step.
'Man,' she told him, pointing towards the kitchen.
Gabe strode past her, touching her head lightly as he went. 'It's okay, Skip,' he reassured her gently and she trotted after him, unable to keep up with his determined stride.
The old man stood on the threshold of the kitchen's outer door to the small piece of garden at the side of the house, rainwater dripping off his hooded stormcoat and muddy Wellington boots onto the rough-bristled welcome mat. Gabe came to a halt just inside the hall doorway, surprised and wondering what the fuss had been about, why he had been called so urgently.
Eve, whose back was to Gabe, quickly half-turned at his approach and said, 'Oh, Gabe, this is Mr… Mr Judd, isn't it?' She returned her attention to the stranger for affirmation.
'Judd, missus,' said the man, 'but call me Percy. First name's Percy.'
He spoke with a soft West Country burr that Gabe warmed to immediately.
''Fraid I couldn't stop it, mister, doggie ran right past me.' It came out as roit pas' me.
Gabe appraised the visitor as he walked towards him. He was short and thin, his face weather-ruddied, cheeks and nose flushed with broken capillaries. The hood of his three-quarter coat was pushed back, but he wore a tweed flat cap, silver hair springing from the rim to brush the tops of his large and long-lobed ears.
'Hey,' Gabe said in greeting, stretching out a hand, and the other man looked momentarily puzzled. Gabe corrected himself. 'Hello.'
The old boy had a good firm grip, Gabe noted, and his proffered hand was hard with calluses, the knuckles gnarled and bony, evidence of long-time manual labour.
'What's this about Chester?' Gabe asked, looking round at Eve.
'He scooted out as soon as I opened the door,' she told him.
'Won't've gone fer in this rain, missus.' It was gorn instead of 'gone'. 'Sorry, but I gave the missus bit of a shock when I looked through the window. Frightened the doggie, too. Shot past me when the door was opened.'
'Percy was telling me he's Crickley Hall's gardener,' Eve said, eyebrows raised at Gabe.
'Gardener and handyman, mister. I looks after Crickley Hall, even when nobody's livin' in the place. 'Specially then. I comes in coupla' times a week this time of year. Jus' enough to keep the house and garden in good order.'
To Gabe, Percy appeared too ancient to be of much use either in the garden or in the house. But then he shouldn't underestimate country folk; this old-timer was probably as hardy as they come, despite his years. He felt himself being surveyed by blue eyes that were faded like washed denim and hoped that in his old jeans, leather boots and sweater, his hands and forearms grimy with dirt from the cellar (he wasn't aware of the smudge across his nose and cheek), he didn't disappoint as the new tenant of Crickley Hall.
'You take care of the gen?' he asked and, on seeing the puzzlement return to Percy's face again, added: 'The generator, I mean.'
'No, mister, but I looks after the boiler. Used to run the old furnace on coal an' wood, but now it's on the oil and 'lectric, so it's easy. Tanker comes out whenever it's runnin' low and stretches its feeder pipe over the bridge to the tank behind the house. Don't know 'bout the gen'rator though. Don't rightly unnerstand the blessed thing.'
'Guess I can fix it myself,' Gabe said. The agent told me you get a lot of power cuts in these parts.'
'Always somethin' interferin' with the lines, fallin' trees, lighnin' strikes. The gen'rator was installed 'bout fifteen years ago. Crickley Hall's owner got fed up with using candles an' oil lamps all the time, as well as eatin' cold dinners.' Percy gave a dry chuckle at the thought. 'Yer'll be needin' the gen'rator in good workin' order all right.'
'Who is the owner of this place? The agent never said.'
Eve was interested in the answer to Gabe's question too, wondering who would choose to live permanently in such a bleak mausoleum. Even though the big hall beyond the kitchen was imposing, there was still a cheerlessness about it.
'Fellah by the name of Templeton. Bought Crickley Hall some twenny years ago. Never stayed long though, weren't happy here.'
That came as no surprise to Eve.
'Would you like some tea or coffee, Percy?' she asked.
'Cuppa tea'll do me.' His smile revealed teeth that resembled a row of old crooked and weathered headstones.
Gabe pulled out a chair from the kitchen table for the old gardener and invited him to sit down. Percy removed his cap as he ambled forward and took his seat. Although his silver hair was full over his ears and round the back of his neck, it was sparse over the top of his head.
'Coffee for you, Gabe?' Eve had moved to the sink and was filling the plastic kettle they'd brought with them.
'Yeah, please.' Gabe pulled out a chair for himself and carefully moved Cally's painting aside. He noticed his daughter had remained in the doorway.
'She's a bonny miss,' observed Percy, giving a small wave of his fingers. She responded by smiling and coyly sidling up to the back of Gabe's chair and hanging on to it.
It was Eve who introduced her. 'This is Cally, our youngest. Her real name is Catherine after my mother, but ever since she understood our surname is Caleigh she's insisted on being called her version of it. Our older daughter, Loren, is busy upstairs at the moment.'
'Hello, missy.' Percy stuck out a gnarled old hand to be shaken and Cally shyly touched it with her fingers, withdrawing them swiftly once she'd done so. Percy chuckled again.
'So tell me, Percy,' said Gabe, leaning his forearms on the table, 'who built the house?'
'Crickley Hall was built at the beginnin' of the last century by a wealthy local man by the name of Charles Crickley. He owned most of the harbour's fishing fleet and all the limekilns hereabouts. Great benefactor to the village, he were, but ended up an unhappy man by all accounts. Wanted to make more of Hollow Bay, make it a tourist attraction, but the locals went agin' him, didn't want no changes, wanted the place peaceful like, holidaymakers be damned. All but broke him in the end. Fishin' stocks dropped, South Wales stopped sendin' limestone 'cross the channel to his kilns, and money he invested smartenin' up Hollow Bay for the tourists came to nothin'. Locals even voted agin' him building a pier for pleasure boats an' such in the bay itself.'