Free The Secret of Crickley Hall by James Herbert Page B

behind the building and Gabe thought, not for the first time, that Devil's Cleave was more like a deep-sided valley than a gorge. A gravel path from the wall's lychgate led to the porch through a grassy graveyard; headstones dark with age leaned as if wearied, an occasional elm tree breaking up the quiet grimness of the landscape.
    Close to the gateway was a mounted wooden board with faded gold lettering announcing that this was the church of ST MARK and the vicar was one REVEREND ANDREW TREVELLICK and his curate was ERIC RISSEY, all of this in neat capital letters. Underneath, also in faded gold, were times of services, and below this, in caps again but the largest message of all, it said: 'IN GOD WE TRUST'.
    Yeah, right , Gabe said to himself as he read the comfort legend.
    'I want to go inside,' insisted Eve, stepping towards the closed gate, her tone allowing no dissent this time.
    Loren pulled a face, while Cally wasn't bothered either way.
    'Sure,' agreed Gabe, his spirits sinking.
    The gate opened with a squeal and they all passed through. As they trudged along the path, Gabe saw that the gravestones, some larger and more ornate than others, continued round to the side and possibly the back of the church. They crunched their way to the porch, glad of its cover even though the rain was now no more than a light drizzle.
    Eve tested the black metal handle and one side of the big door opened easily. She stepped inside and the others followed, Gabe reluctantly. Although it was gloomy in there, stained-glass windows glowed brightly above them despite the poor light of the day. There was only one centre aisle, with pews on either side, that led to the high pulpit and altar. Some of the pews near the front had little doors on them so that the seats were segregated from the rest, and Eve assumed that these were once for the more important families of the community—probably still were. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she went to an open pew halfway down the aisle. She knelt on the padded knee-rest and bowed her head into her hands.
    Loren looked round at Gabe and he gave a short nod of his head. She went to a pew just behind Eve's and Cally followed. Cally sat on the wooden bench while Loren joined her mother in prayer.
    At the back of the church, Gabe wished that he could have their faith. All he felt was anger, though, anger at a God who could put them through such agony. If there was a God, of course. If He did exist, then He seemed to care little for the part of His creation called mankind.
    Gabe's fists clenched and his teeth bit into his lower lip. He wanted to pound the stone pillar beside him with his fist. But instead, he turned away and let his anger subside into bitterness. Let Eve and Loren pray for their miracle. As for him, he knew miracles never happened. Not in this life, they didn't. And this was the only life anyone ever had.
    Gabe turned away and paced the uneven stone floor, straining to drive these useless thoughts from his mind as he went to the other side of the church. It was then he saw all the names on a polished board mounted on the rear wall of the church. In fact there were two boards, side by side, but it was the first one that made him pause.
    The lettering was inscribed in white yellowed by age and it was the heading that had caught his attention:
    IN MEMORY OF THE POOR ORPHANS WHO PERISHED IN THE GREAT STORM OF 1943
    Below this there followed a list of all the children who had died in that storm:
    ARNOLD BROWN—7 yrs
MAVIS BORRINGTON—7 yrs
PATIENCE FROST—6 yrs
BRENDA PROSSER—10 yrs
GERALD PROSSER—8 yrs
STEFAN ROSENBAUM—5 yrs
EUGENE SMITH—9 yrs
MAURICE STAFFORD—12 yrs
SUSAN TRAINER—11 yrs
MARIGOLD WELCH—7 yrs
WILFRED WILTON—6 yrs
    Reading the names of all these dead children—orphans every one of them—almost broke Gabe right there and then. He had contained his anguish, his debilitating grief, for nearly a year now so that he could be resolute for Eve and their daughters,