‘Nearly there.’
When the first building loomed out of the rain, it took me by surprise. I glimpsed a public house sign, showing a skeleton on a gallows. The death’s head grinned at me as the sign creaked back and forth in the wind. Brick cottages lined the village’s single narrow street, which climbed slightly as it reached the church. There the road curved sharply to the left. Gravel crunched beneath our wheels as we passed through substantial iron gates. Some kind of heraldic beast surmounted the stone pillars, eroded so much as to be unidentifiable.
‘Well, here we are. Safe and sound.’
The car pulled up in front of the house. Its square mass bulked over us, grand facade sneering at the world. The windows were curtained and dark.
'If you get out here, I'll put the car away.'
A fresh squall of rain sent me dashing for the shelter of the porch. I swung the heavy iron door knocker. We must have been expected, for the dull bang was answered immediately. The door opened, and I stepped inside without waiting to be invited.
CHAPTER THREE
I FOUND MYSELF in a gloomy entrance hall, tiled in a black and white design which was almost, but not exactly, symmetrical. The woman who had opened the door inspected me. Her unnaturally black hair and severe but well-cut dark clothing went well with the décor. She sniffed.
'Miss Wright? You're younger than I expected.'
I thought better of saying anything witty and extended my hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Mrs...'
She stared at my oil-stained glove, her own hands remaining by her sides. 'Mrs Jones. Housekeeper. Is that all your luggage?' Her tone expressed doubt that any reputable person could have so few bags, and so shabby.
'There's a trunk to come.'
'You’ve missed luncheon. I hope you weren’t expecting to eat. I'll show to your room.'
She didn't volunteer to carry anything. I followed meekly as we proceeded into the main hall, a vast space the full height of the building, with a staircase to match. Our footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. The house had a faint unpleasant smell, hard to identify. Not damp or mould. More like a chemical experiment or burnt cooking.
'I've put you on the top floor. It’s not fancy but you'll have a bathroom to yourself.'
The stairs seemed endless. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, my arms creaking with the weight of my bags. First floor, second floor, then she ushered me into a small, sparsely furnished room.
This top floor must originally have been servant’s quarters. My room had bare floor boards, two single beds on either side of a window, a chair, and a chest of drawers.
'The bathroom is down the hall.'
‘Mr Hack said the Director was indisposed. Is he expecting to see me?’
‘Dr Langstone won’t want to see you today.’ Her sneer suggested he wouldn’t want to see me ever. ‘Dinner is at 8. Promptly. You may not hear the gong up here.’
As her footsteps receded, I sunk onto the bed with my head in my hands. Why had the Professor ever moved from his London townhouse to this mausoleum in the middle of nowhere?
Actually, I could guess his motivation. Professor Dernstrum’s name and face had been famous once, plastered on bottles in every pharmacy and home medicine cabinet. Before the war, he’d sold his patent medicine business. A well-timed move: a few months later, mobs were breaking the windows of perfectly innocent butchers and bakers who had German-sounding names. A move to Uggley, where the locals would struggle to round up enough people for even a small riot, might have appealed to him at the time.
The more important question was what on earth was I doing here? A few days reading 'Introduction to Secretarial Work for Ladies' could on no account qualify me to act as a secretary. They would laugh at me and send me packing.
After a few moments of self-pity, I shook myself and got up to find the bathroom. Thankfully, it was modern. Cold, clean, and with enough white tiles to cause snow blindness. Tepid water gurgled and spat out of the tap. I washed the grime of travel from my face and hands, then faced myself in the mirror.
‘All right,’ I said out loud. ‘You’re here. It might not be easy. But if you get on with everyone and do your best, you have a chance. Don’t mess it up.’
Fortified by this pep talk, I returned to my room. Since Dr Langstone was unavailable, what should I do with myself for the rest of the day? I decided to explore. Halfway down the stairs, I spied Hack hauling my trunk across the hall.
‘Hello.’
He set the trunk down on its end, and leaned on it, wheezing. ‘What do you have in this thing? Bricks?’
I trotted down the steps. ‘Nothing much, actually. Let me help.’
‘No, no, you’ve already surpassed me as a mechanic, I should demonstrate my masculine superiority at something.’
‘Well, thank you. But you can leave it until later if you have work to do.’
He grinned. Nicotine-stained fingers smoothed his little moustache. ‘Work? Yes, I suppose I should be. Researching. That sort of thing. What about you?’
‘I’m not sure what I should be doing. I assume Dr Langstone will tell me, but the housekeeper says he’s ill.’
‘Ah, so you’ve met the charming Mrs Jones? Well, if you’ve nothing better to do, I can introduce you to the rest of the gang.’
The rain had stopped, save for a drop or two. A brisk wind hurried us along the gravel drive towards the brick walls of the old stable yard.
‘There are two other researchers,’ Hack said. ‘Enfield and Rickett. I’ll introduce you to Rickett first.’
We passed through a wide archway into a square courtyard. The old stables had been converted into garages, now sheltering the Morris Oxford and alongside it, a black Ford. We picked our way past the garaged cars, skirting a square lake the rain had left in the centre of the yard. Ahead, the double doors of the coach house stood open. A stout red-faced man stood in the doorway smoking a pipe, but my attention was immediately claimed by the remarkable construction standing behind him in the workshop.
What had once been a coach house was now all but full of something, clearly unfinished, but unlike any machine I had ever seen. The chassis was an open steel framework, the size of a large delivery van. There was an engine, and trailing pipes dangled, and then there were the legs… It loomed like some huge metal spider about to pounce.
‘Rickett, this is the new secretary. Miss Wright.’
I wrenched my gaze away from the machine.
Rickett chuckled. ‘Now then. What d’you think of her?’ He had a broad Yorkshire accent.
‘Amazing. But what is it?’
Rickett squared his shoulders and stuck out his chest. 'The Walking War Machine. She can go over rough ground, barbed wire. Nothing can stop her. If we’d had her in the war, we’d a been finished in six month.'
‘Oh.’ I looked at the machine again. ‘Walking? That’s certainly a… novel approach.’
'Now, this is only the prototype. Once the design is proved, I’ll scale her up. Twice as large, three times. Rickett's Giant Walking War Machine, that's what they’ll call her.'
Across the workshop, a lank youth with a cigarette dangling from his lips, who had been poking a screwdriver into a stripped-down engine, was staring at me. Rickett noticed me noticing.
‘My son, Sam. My assistant, for his sins. Or mine.’
I smiled at the boy. He blushed.
‘Miss Wright is something of a mechanic herself,’ Hack said. ‘I thought she’d find this interesting.’
‘Oh aye?’ Rickett smiled condescendingly.
'How are you powering it?'
'Two engines, front and back. See the mountings?' He seized a sheaf of papers from the workbench, leafing through to find the one he wanted. 'The drawing shows it better.'
'Good heavens. This is very ambitious.'
'It’s no small thing, for sure.'
'The main problem, I should think, would be preventing the thing from tearing itself to pieces. Not to mention the
control system. The driver would need three hands, at least.'
Rickett snatched the drawings out of my hands. 'Gi’over. What do you know? Three years I bin working on these here plans. There’s nowt wrong that can’t be figured out.'
Hack coughed. ‘I think we’ve disturbed Mr Rickett enough. Perhaps we should move on, Miss Wright? Rickett, do you know where we can find Enfield?’
Rickett smoothed out his drawings on the bench. 'Down the greenhouse, if he’s not out.'
Cold raindrops slapped the back of my neck as we followed the muddy path round to the brick walls of the old kitchen garden, now a wilderness of brambles and thriving elder trees. The greenhouse leaned against the outer face of one of these walls, taking up the full length. I dived through the open door.
Muggy air laden with an overpowering smell of rotting seashore and sulphur enveloped me. The warmth was welcome, at least. I breathed shallowly.
At the far end, a tall man stooped over a bench. With his back to us and the rain drumming against the roof, he had not noticed our entrance. He was putting small plants into larger pots.
Hack tapped on the glass. ‘Enfield?’
Enfield turned, frowning at the interruption. A shining metal hook protruded from his left sleeve. Realising I was staring, I forced my gaze to his face. His eyes met mine with a trace of amusement.
‘This is Miss Wright, Enfield. The new secretary.’
He wiped dirt from his right hand and came forward to greet me.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
His handshake was firm, his good hand solid with muscle and rough with outdoor work. Apart from the hook, his appearance was unremarkable. Above average height, broad shoulders, warm brown eyes and a face that ought to smile.
On the bench where he’d been working, pots of sturdy three-inch tall plants with rounded, greyish leaves stood in precise rows. like soldiers on parade. Larger plants of the same type filled the beds on both sides of the greenhouse, the tallest about a foot high. From a large central raised bed, steam rose steadily.
‘Mr Enfield is breeding plants,’ Hack said brightly. ‘Cabbage, isn’t it?’
‘Technically, it’s a kind of kale.’
My knowledge of cabbage was limited to buying, cooking and eating. The plants didn’t look unusual in any way.
‘Why?’ I said. Enfield frowned at me. ‘I mean, what are you researching?’
‘I’m trying to increase the food value. More protein.’
I struggled to think of something further to ask. ‘Have you been working on it for long?’
‘Six months here, and several years before that.’
‘You’ve been here longer than anyone,’ Hack said. ‘What do you make of Langstone? I haven’t even seen him yet.’
Enfield shrugged. ‘I expect he’ll appear before long. He seems prone to these bouts of illness, but he surfaces after a day or two.’
‘Do you know what’s wrong with him?’ Hack said. The question was asked casually, but his expression was sharp.
‘I think you should ask him, if you want to know.’
‘He hasn’t told you?’
‘It doesn’t interfere with my work, so it’s not my business.’
‘But you must have formed some opinion of him?’
Enfield turned back to his plants. ‘He’s an odd bird, but I’ve met odder. Keeps to himself a good deal. Clever, when he’s in the mood to talk. But you’ll meet him yourself soon enough.’
‘Of course. I’m just curious,’ Hack said. He bent to look closely at the cabbage plants.
An awkward silence descended.
‘It’s warm in here,’ I said. ‘Pleasant.’
‘Hotbed,’ Enfield said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Hotbed.’ He pointed to the raised bed. ‘Big pile of vegetable matter. Rots down, gives off heat, enough to keep the greenhouse from freezing at night. Feel it.’
I lowered my palm onto the black earth. It felt like a hot water bottle was buried under the surface. ‘How very clever.’
‘Bit smelly, I’m afraid. Don’t notice it myself.’
I brushed my hand along a row of little plants. The leathery leaves rebounded from my touch.
‘I always think gardening must be a very peaceful occupation. Healthy, too. In the outdoors.’
‘Please don’t touch.’
‘Sorry.’ I put my hands behind my back and stepped away from the bed. As I did so, one of the small plants twitched. I quite distinctly saw the leaves move of their own accord. ‘Oh!’
My surprise sent me back another step, into a trestle table loaded with seed trays, which promptly collapsed. Trays tumbled to the floor, throwing dirt everywhere, including over my skirt and shoes.
‘I’m so sorry.’ My hands went to my burning face.
‘Bother.’ Enfield sighed, righted the table and began picking up seed trays. Spindly green seedlings and white roots threaded the black dirt.
‘Let me give you a hand.’ I bent down to pick up some trays. Our heads collided, and we both recoiled.
I froze. Had I really said what I just thought I had? Had he noticed?
‘You’ve done enough, I think.’ Whether he’d noticed my slip or not, his tone made it clear we’d outstayed our welcome.
‘Perhaps we should leave you to it. We’ll see you at dinner, I expect?’ Hack said.
Enfield nodded without looking up from his task.
The rain had settled into a steady drizzle, driven by a sharp wind which sent us back to the house rapidly. Heads bowed, we splashed through the growing puddles.
A slight, dark-haired young woman was mopping the tiled floor of the hall. She stopped as we entered. I realised we were leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind us.
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Ne’mind, miss. Tis allus dirty soon’s I clean ‘em.’
‘This is Molly,’ Hack said. ‘Molly, meet Miss Wright. The new secretary.’
Molly smiled and nodded.
Followed by Hack and my trunk, I returned to my little room. He deposited my trunk and departed, wheezing. Alone with my embarrassment, I sat on my bed. I couldn’t believe my own stupidity. I’d been here less than an hour and everyone hated me except Hack. So much for making a good first impression.
Well, whatever they thought of me, we were stuck here, and would have to make the best of it. I brushed dirt from my clothes vigorously. There would be plenty of time for getting to know people, and anyone worth befriending would surely see I wasn’t really an idiot.
By the time I’d changed clothes, I felt much better about the whole business. All the same, I decided to stay in my room until dinner.
At 8, promptly by my watch, I descended the stairs. Following the noise of voices and cutlery, I found the dining room.
Crystal and china sparkled in the light of the electric lamps hanging above the long table. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of a heavy featured gentleman in the dress of a cavalier. More portraits of stiff ladies in big hats, excessively ugly children, and doe-eyed spaniels paraded around the crimson papered walls.
Hack, Enfield and the Ricketts, senior and junior, were already at the table. I sat by Hack, facing Enfield, with my back to the door. The place at the head of the table remained empty.
Mrs Jones bustled in, bearing a steaming tureen of soup.
‘Will Dr Langstone be…,’ I began to ask, when I saw Enfield look towards the door expectantly. I swivelled in my seat to see the man himself entering the room.
CHAPTER FOUR
LANGSTONE WAS WHITE. His face was pale, the skin almost translucent, like porcelain. He sidled into the room, squinting at the light. For a moment I took him for a stooped, shuffling old man, then I looked again and the illusion broke. No wrinkles marked his face. Golden hair stuck up on one side, as if he’d slept on it, but his blue eyes were bright and alive with interest.
‘Miss Wright?’
I had been staring. His unbuttoned shirt-cuff tickled my wrist as
we clasped hands. His grip was firm and cool. I managed to stammer something polite.
Hack had risen from the table to greet Langstone.
‘Director, I, I’m delighted to meet you,’ Hack stuttered. I could hear him wheeze with every breath.
‘You are Mr Hack, I take it?’
‘Yes, yes. My card.’ Hack offered a square of pasteboard. Langstone glanced at it before sitting down.
‘I’m sorry I could not greet you on your arrival. I’ve been quite unwell.’
Mrs Jones began to serve the soup. It was brown. Pearls of fat swam on the surface.
While eating, I examined Langstone covertly. He didn’t look like a sick man, except for the paleness. His youthful appearance was a surprise. I had assumed he would be older, of the same vintage as the Professor, my father, and Bentley. Though, now I thought about it, Bentley hadn’t mentioned his age. All I knew of him was that he had been the Professor’s physician and friend in the years leading up to his death. Having no children, the Professor left all his worldly wealth to found the Institute and chose Langstone to be the first Director.
‘I have my doubts about spiritualism, Mr Hack,’ Langstone said. ‘But Mr Bentley has recommended your project, and we will be happy to extend you every facility.’
Hack’s spoon clattered against his bowl. ‘Why, thank you. My needs are quite small though.’
‘What program of research are you planning to follow?’
‘Ah. Well. Photography is a special interest of mine. Spirit photography, have you heard of it?’
‘Mmm.’ Langstone might have been answering or appreciating the soup, unlikely as that seemed. He hadn’t eaten much. He laid his spoon down.
Hack waved his hands as he spoke. ‘Photographs of places or persons sometimes display additional images, images of spectral forms. The house here strikes me as a very promising subject. I’d be happy to take photographs of anyone willing to try the experiment. Perhaps, yourself, if you wouldn’t mind…’
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 2