The Haunting of Cringlemire Hall

By Martin Marriott

When George Smeaton inherits his Uncle Samuel's estate, he sees it as an opportunity to uproot his family and start anew. But as he settles into Cringlemire Hall, he realizes that something is not quite right. The servants are keeping secrets, his youngest child falls ill with a mysterious illness, and George himself disappears en route to a business trip in Edinburgh.

As the family grapples with these strange occurrences, they turn to Inspector Cornelius Threadbold for help. With his sharp mind and unflappable demeanor, Threadbold sets out to unravel the secrets of Cringlemire Hall. But as he delves deeper, he discovers a web of deceit and betrayal that threatens to consume the entire family.

As the Inspector races against time to uncover the truth, the Smeatons must confront the dark history of their estate and the sinister forces that have long lurked within its walls. Will they uncover the truth before it's too late? Or will the secrets of Cringlemire Hall claim yet another victim?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Marriott
• Release date: Jul 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223868354

Book preview

~ THE HAUNTING OF CRINGLEMIRE HALL ~

Copyright © 2023 by Martin Marriott

All rights reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by Martin Marriott

First edition: July 2023

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For information regarding permission, write to:

[e-mail]

Twitter: @martinmarriottX

OTHER WORKS BY AUTHOR

Eternal Waters

The Queen of New York City

The Pearly Gates

The Awakening

Blacken Your Soul

A Very Dark Place (A Collection of Short Stories)

Betsy Breedlove & Professor Foxton’s Notebook (Novella)

Killing the Dead (A Zombie Short Story)

The Bad Liars’ Club (Novelette)

Contents

Part I

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

Part II

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

Part III

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

Part I

I

Cringlemire Hall came into my father's possession following the death of Samuel Smeaton, my father's elderly uncle. Often, Father would refer to Uncle Samuel as a wretched, spiteful, and vindictive man. Such was his disdain for Uncle Samuel that my brother and I never had the opportunity to meet him.

Only my mother had the privilege of meeting him, just once, on her wedding day. It was then that Uncle Samuel, finding my mother in a state of pregnancy, told her she resembled a grotesquely overweight white elephant. A full fifteen years passed since that day, with no contact between Father and his uncle.

By this time, Father had become a well-established lawyer in the City of London, working for the renowned Smide and Black Company. Mother was content at home, home-schooling Isaac, my ten-year-old younger brother, and me in our modest house.

One day, while Father was engrossed in paperwork at his desk, a knock came at his office door. He asked the visitor to return later, citing his busy schedule and lack of time.

Ignoring his request, the door creaked open, and in strode a short man with a thin, glistening black moustache above his top lip. He seemed to consider himself of a higher social standing, judging by the way his eyes sized up Father. He removed his top hat, rested his cane against the wall, and seated himself across from Father. Mr George Smeaton, I presume?

Please, sit. Father's irritation was evident. And you are?

A friend of your uncle's.

And which uncle might that be, sir?

The name's Dandy, the man replied, not extending his hand for a shake. I'm here on business regarding the estate of Mr Samuel Smeaton.

Unconcerned and uninterested, Father leaned back in his chair. I fail to see how I can assist you. I haven't spoken to the old fool in years.

In a theatrically contrived tone, Mr Dandy countered, Then why would he give you, his house?

What house?

Why, Dandy beamed back, Cringlemire Hall.

Father's eyes narrowed; his pen aimed accusingly at Dandy. Is this some kind of joke, Mr Dandy? I'm quite busy. I have no time for childish games.

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Mr Dandy pulled out a white, sealed envelope. Have a look at this, Mr Smeaton. Given your education and successful career, you will soon see that I'm not playing games.

Despite his irritation with Mr Dandy, Father remained the gentleman. He accepted the envelope and, using a small, curved letter opener (a fortieth birthday gift from my mother), he extracted and read the last will and testament of Samuel Smeaton.

Well? Mr Dandy enquired after a moment.

Father slid the letter back into its holder after reading it one final time. Forgive my bluntness, Mr Dandy, but Uncle Samuel and I were never on good terms. I detested the old man and, as far as I know, he reciprocated.

Oh, I'm well aware he didn't like you, Mr Dandy replied, eyes gleaming in their sunken sockets. He made it quite clear. In fact, he despised most, if not all, of his family.

Confused, Father shook his head. Then why leave me Cringlemire Hall? The estate must hold some value. Why not sell it and donate the money?

Mr Dandy leaned forward, tapping the envelope with his yellowed fingernails. You've read your uncle's wishes, Mr Smeaton. You are to inherit Cringlemire Hall.

Suddenly, a thought struck Father. Samuel had a son, he mused, struggling to recall his name, feeling somewhat ashamed of his forgetfulness.

Ah, you mean your cousin Robert, Mr Dandy said, rolling his eyes. One cannot inherit if one is dead.

Dead? News of a cousin's passing was usually spread by the family's gossiping aunts, yet Father had heard nothing of this. When did this happen? Didn't Robert have children of his own?

Mr Dandy sighed at Father's apparent ignorance of family affairs. Robert never married or fathered any illegitimate children that I'm aware of. As for your first question, he died at Hanwell.

The asylum? Father was taken aback.

Mr Dandy nodded. Uncle Samuel had him committed.

On what grounds? Father asked, still harboring suspicions about Mr Dandy.

Looking at Father as though he was the one who was mad, Mr Dandy replied, On the grounds of being a raving lunatic. He drove himself insane with his belief that Cringlemire Hall was haunted.

Is it?

Not to my knowledge, Mr Dandy explained. Standing up, he extended a business card towards Father. Let me know when you're ready to proceed.

With his hat back on and cane in hand, Mr Dandy opened the door and was about to leave when Father asked how Samuel had died. Mr Dandy's eyes and malicious smile widened so much that Father thought his face was going to tear itself apart.

Lack of breath, Mr Smeaton.

II

I WAS NOT PRIVY TO Father’s conversation with Mother regarding his newfound inheritance. But whatever was said resulted in us leaving our beloved home six months later in favour of Cringlemire Hall. I was devastated at the idea of leaving my home and friends behind. However, being fifteen years old, I had no say in the matter.

We're only moving to the other side of London, Father said to me, Not the other side of the Empire. He then instructed the footman where to take the rest of our belongings. Now go and help your mother unpack.

Mother’s not unpacking, I replied. She's delegating to the maids where to put things.

Father beamed proudly. Then go and be delegated to.

I found Mother barking orders at the maids in the dining room. She wanted it cleaned and gleaming by the evening. How could her family be expected to dine in such horrendous surroundings? The maids knew my mother’s requests were unrealistic. My mother knew her demands were beyond reasoning. But if you didn't at least try then what was the point?

Uncle Samuel had let the upkeep of Cringlemire Hall slip. Every single room needed a spring cleaning and redecorating. Cringlemire had a study, library, dining room, a large kitchen, evening room, games room, eight bedrooms, three lavatories, a cellar, and an attic.

My parents both knew it was going to take a lot of money to restore Cringlemire Hall to the majestic house it once was. Which was possibly the reason Uncle Samuel didn't maintain the upkeep. Not because he was poor. But, as my father had always told me, Uncle Samuel was a wretched, spiteful, and vindictive man.

The sweeping grand staircase, an enigmatic feature in the hallway, also needed the attention of several carpenters. If my parents’ troubles weren’t already piling up, Father had been told that the roof needed urgent attention. Several wooden joists had rotted away and in time the roof would give way. So, it was decided that before anything else, the roof was the first job that had to be repaired.

Where's your brother? Mother asked me in the study.

I presumed he was with you.

Mother placed her hands on her hips. He’ll be in the garden looking at that pond again. Go and find him before he falls in.

As you wish. I turned on my heels. I sensed Mother was scowling at me as I walked away.

You did the same when you were his age, young man! she shouted after me.

I probably did. But I didn't recall so.

The gardens of Cringlemire Hall weren't gardens as such but an open expanse of land that once must have been a jewel to look at. But, just like the interior of the hall, the exterior had suffered the same fate. It needed some tender loving care.

The trees needed cutting back; the flower beds needed my mother’s attention. She enjoyed that kind of thing. I imagined she would employ a few good gardeners to help her, though.

I stood on the stone steps looking at the garden before me. I tried to picture the land in its former glory, teeming with gentry and beautiful ladies being entertained at a garden party or an extravagant wedding. I wondered if, when the day came, and the hall and gardens had been restored to their former glory, I would one day have my wedding there. Even Isaac might, when he reached an age. That is, if he hadn't fallen into the pond that lay at the foot of the garden.

I was about to run down those old worn stone steps when I suddenly felt a chill run down the back of my spine. It wasn't a cold day and, since it was the middle of