Free The Dead of Winter by Chris Priestley Page A

muttered.
    ‘So you believe me, Hodges?’ I said.
    ‘I don’t know what to believe, Master Michael,’he replied, grimacing. ‘But I think I know a person’s character well enough and I don’t see you as a liar or a fool. And I know – we all do – that something is not right in this house.’
    ‘Mr Jerwood said the priest hole had a special significance to Sir Stephen,’ I said. ‘What did he mean?’
    I saw Hodges take a furtive glance towards Mrs Guston, who had just walked within earshot of our conversation. I saw too that she nodded in reply to his unspoken question.
    ‘It’s not right to speak ill of the dead, but Sir Stephen’s father was a cruel man,’ said Hodges. ‘He was hard and brutal. He felt that his wife treated Miss Charlotte and Sir Stephen – and particularly Sir Stephen – with too much tenderness. He was obsessed with instilling some kind of toughness in him.
    ‘But rather than making Sir Stephen tougher, he broke something in him: something that has never ever truly repaired itself.’
    Hodges was lost in his memories for a moment.
    ‘Tell the boy about what happened that Christmas,’ said Mrs Guston, walking towards us.
    ‘I was getting to that in my way, thank you, Mrs Guston,’ said Hodges. ‘And is that meant to be burning?’
    Mrs Guston let out a shriek when she saw smoke drifting up from the oven and Hodges allowed himself a not unfriendly grin.
    ‘As I was about to say, Michael,’ said Hodges, ‘it all came to a head one Christmas. Sir Stephen would have been your age. He’d been having a terrible time from his father. He used to lie in his room, sobbing, poor thing.
    ‘I wasn’t much older than him myself and I felt awfully sorry for him. My father was a good man, and kind. I couldn’t understand how a father could treat his own son so badly.
    ‘Then, that Christmas, it must have all become too much for him, because Sir Stephen’s father walked into his study to find the whole place in a terrible state. Old Sir Stephen had been working on a history of his family and all his notes were strewn about the place and ripped into pieces. His books had been torn and spoiled.
    ‘The young master made no attempt to hide the fact that he had done it and, for the first time anyone could remember, he stood up to his father and showed some courage.
    ‘His father was furious. He dragged little Stephen kicking and screaming to the priest hole and threw him inside while his mother cried andbegged her husband to be merciful.’
    Hodges paused here and shook his head at the memory. When he looked back at me I was surprised to see tears in his eyes.
    ‘Everyone at Hawton Mere knows the story of the priest hole, but it was only a little before this time that Sir Stephen’s father had unearthed it while researching his book. The priest hole had been sealed and painted over and forgotten about for centuries. It would have been a mercy for everyone if it had stayed that way.
    ‘It turned out that a Jesuit priest had hidden there when this house had been a Catholic stronghold. Queen Elizabeth’s soldiers had come and taken the family into custody, but though they searched the house, they never did find the priest hole or the priest.
    ‘No one knows why the priest didn’t leave his hiding place. Maybe he was too scared. Maybe his mind had become unhinged. Whatever the reason, it was not until the family returned over a month later that the priest’s body was found. They say his face was frozen in a look of terror, his fingernails broken as he had tried to claw his way free.
    ‘In any event, Old Sir Stephen locked the young master in the priest hole and forbade anyone to gonear the place. It was in the late afternoon and he did not allow his wife to release him until the following morning. Young Stephen hammered on those panels all night, poor little fellow.
    ‘When his mother opened the priest hole, he came rushing out like a wild animal. She tried to comfort him and he