by Jodi Taylor
And that was just what we did. Mr Lillywhite clasped his hands and closed his eyes. I suppose that’s the advantage of being a vicar – people never know if you’re praying or whether you’ve just dropped off after another heavy meal.
The clock struck eleven. I counted the strokes. I think we all did. In an hour’s time . . . We sat and watched the hands on the clock inch their way towards midnight. The clock struck half past eleven. All conversation had long since ceased. We sat in silence for a few minutes and then, suddenly, evidently unwilling to hang around any longer, Mr Harewood slapped his knees and rose to his feet.
‘I can bear this no longer. Let’s get it over with, shall we? Is everything ready, Barnstaple?’
Barnstaple ceased to tidy away the tea things and looked across to his master. A candelabrum stood on the table at his elbow, lighting his face from below. For a very fleeting moment, he was no longer the comfortable, conventional butler, supervising the staff with quiet efficiency. Just for one moment, in the flickering candlelight, his face was full of shadows and mystery. And then it was gone and he was Barnstaple again. ‘Everything is ready, sir.’
‘Then off I go.’
It took a while for them to organise themselves. I simply picked up my shawl and draped it around my shoulders. I’ve always believed in travelling light. We trailed out of the room. The whole house blazed with light. They must have lit every chandelier, every sconce, every candelabrum, every oil lamp. Shadows had been banished. It must have taken them ages to light this lot.
Mr and Mrs Harewood led the way. He clutched an armful of books, saying over his shoulder, ‘An excellent opportunity for me to reread the Iliad, Chance.’
Mr Lillywhite frowned. I suspected he felt it would have been more appropriate for Mr Harewood to have armed himself with the family Bible, and he might have been right. Given the size of most of them I reckoned it could do some real damage if wielded in anger.
Messrs Chance and Lillywhite followed the Harewoods and they in turn were followed by Barnstaple and a gaggle of housemaids bearing all the various pieces of kit deemed essential for the coming Ordeal. Peterson, leaning heavily on Markham, limped behind them and I trailed along at the back. My traditional position in the scheme of things.
As Markham had said, the room was on the ground floor, next to the library. It would have been on the east side of the house so I could easily see it being a favourite place for ladies to sit in the mornings. Although not any longer.
We halted outside a door indistinguishable from any of the others. I was rather disappointed there were no bloody handprints around the handle, or any deep gouges in the wood as a terrified occupant had clawed at the door, driven mad by terror. Although as Peterson later pointed out, they would all be on the inside of the door, Max, wouldn’t they, you idiot?
There was, however, a brand-new lock. To replace the one from Mr Harewood senior’s Ordeal, presumably. When they’d broken down the door and found him sitting there . . .
Mr Harewood clutched his half dozen books and Barnstaple supported a silver tray with a decanter, a glass and several covered plates of food barely sufficient to keep a normal man on his feet for a week. John carried a box of kindling, two housemaids had brought a coal scuttle each, and an excited-looking Eliza was burdened with a dozen or so long candles.
There were three locks on the door just as Mrs Harewood had said. One at head height, one above the door handle and one below.
I heard the big clock in the hall begin to strike a quarter to midnight.
There was a moment’s silence and then the solicitor, Chance, stepped up. ‘We must not be late. If you are ready, Mr Lillywhite.’
From the look on his face, the reverend was neither willing nor able. He was, however, ready. Wearing what could only be described as his ‘I am among pagans’ expression, he stepped up to the door.
Reaching up, he inserted the key in the highest lock, which turned with little effort. I suspected Barnstaple had been round with an oil can and feather. Withdrawing the key, the reverend stepped back to make room for Mr Chance – who was not smiling, just for once. He copied the vicar’s actions, opening the lock below the handle.
They both stepped back and finally it was Henry Harewood’s turn. Handing his books to his wife to hold for him, he took out his key and inserted it into the final lock. The sound of it turning was very loud in the silence. Withdrawing the key, he tucked it into his breast pocket. I assumed the three separate locks with their three separate keys were to prevent any unauthorised access to the Haunted Room. Or unauthorised egress as well. Henry might have a key but he’d be unable to get out of the room if the other two refused to use theirs. I had a sudden thought. Would they let him out if he begged them? I could picture a terrified Henry Harewood clawing at the door, screaming to be released, and a smiling Chance refusing to budge, saying, ‘It’s for your own good, my dear sir. Only another six hours to go . . .’ while the reverend intoned a psalm in the darkness.
The door swung silently open. Darkness yawned at us. There was a cold, damp breath of air in our faces that was suddenly very unpleasant. Our candles flickered and shadows jumped across the wall. One of the maids shrieked. Not to be left out, another one or two others screamed as well. Disappointingly, no one swooned.
Henry Harewood raised his candle high. I think anyone would have forgiven him a slight tremor but the light shone steady and strong. Without hesitation, he crossed the threshold and stepped into the room. The rest of us remained in the doorway, peering in.
I couldn’t see much – Barnstaple was substantial, even for a butler – but the dim light revealed a thick coating of dust over every horizontal surface. No footprints showed. Nor fingerprints, either. Every surface was completely undisturbed and it was very obvious that nothing had been moved and no one had entered this room since the last Ordeal. The faded curtains had not even been drawn back from the windows. I could imagine everyone scrabbling to get Mr Harewood senior out of the room as quickly as possible, slamming the door behind them. Keeping whatever lived in this room safely contained behind the door. I looked around. Was it watching at this very moment? Watching us from the shadows? Waiting for us to leave, when it would have Henry Harewood to play with during all those long hours until the sun rose again?
I could hear the rain still lashing against the window panes behind the curtains. The rain hadn’t let up for one moment since our arrival. Despite the high wind whistling in the chimney, the curtains were quite still. Unusually for a house this age there was no draught here. The windows were indeed tightly sealed.
This had clearly once been a very pleasant room but now, sadly, was musty, fusty and dusty, which I thought sounded like three cartoon characters, and it occurred to me that possibly I had had too much wine at dinner after all.
A sofa which would normally reside by the fire had been pushed under one of the windows. A long table, thick with dust, would have been ideal for reading, dressmaking, bonnet trimming, husband hunting, watercolours, or any of the pastimes deemed suitable for Victorian ladies by Victorian men.
A delicate chandelier hung overhead and the central square of carpet – where not covered in dirt – showed a pattern of garlanded roses. With what would, no doubt, have been a pretty view out over the gardens, I could see it would once have been a lovely room. But not tonight. Tonight it made no attempt to welcome the intruders.
The mirror over the mantel was spotted with age and threw back distorted versions of ourselves. Everything in here felt not quite right. Just a little off. And very, very cold. I could see Henry Harewood’s breath clouding in the damp air.
He walked slowly across the room, holding his candle high. A number of us followed on behind him. I have to say – I wasn’t that keen to enter but I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t, so I followed Peterson and Markham into the room.
John peeled off to begin clearing the r
emains of the old fire and laying the new. None of the maids would come in – they clustered outside, nervously peering around the doorjamb, squeaking and jumping at every loud noise.
Mrs Harewood also refused to enter. She stood outside with the maids as Barnstaple deployed his forces. John was laying the fire with professional speed. Barnstaple was laying the table – because of course Mr Harewood hadn’t eaten anything for two hours, which was probably illegal in middle-class Victorian England. He spread a crisp white cloth across part of the dusty table – because he had standards, obviously – and began, slowly and meticulously, to lay the table. Napkins, plates, forks . . . Bringing a breath of normality to the situation. Whatever horrors gathered in the corners of the room, Barnstaple was checking the maids had packed the right forks.
The solicitor, Chance, prowled around, checking the windows, and finished eventually at the mantel, where he took up a position that would enable him to observe everything. The reverend stood by the table with an expression of stern determination.
John took a spill from the jar on the mantel. Lighting it from a candle, he applied it to the fire. A small, unenthusiastic yellow flame ran along a splinter of kindling. It was touch and go whether the fire would light. He was already reaching for another spill when, finally, it caught.
The footman plied the bellows like a madman before the flames changed their mind, presumably. I was certain lighting fires wasn’t usually part of his job and he just wanted to be out of this room as quickly as possible.
Looking back through the door into the warm, brightly lit, normal world beyond, I could see the maids had all retreated to a safe distance. I suspected Mrs Harewood’s servants had divided themselves into two camps – those who wanted to see what was happening here – from a safe distance, of course – and those who couldn’t even be dynamited out of the Servants’ Hall tonight.
Mr Harewood surveyed the old armchair close to the fire. The one in which his father had died. ‘I think, Barnstaple . . .’
‘Of course, sir.’
He made a gesture and John ceased his work with the bellows. Together the two of them removed the armchair to a dark corner, bringing up another from the other side of the room. I personally wouldn’t have done that. The thought of that old chair, with its former occupant, staring at me, unseen, from that dark corner . . . while the shadows gathered . . . I wondered if it had occurred to anyone there might be two ghosts in this room now.
However, Mr Harewood seemed happy enough, arranging it just so before the fire and thumping the cushions. A cloud of dust arose. He stepped back, coughing.
‘Henry,’ said his wife reprovingly from the doorway. ‘Your coat.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Sorry, my dear.’ But she had brought another welcome breath of normality to the room. Or perhaps it was just the fire warming things up.
Barnstaple was lighting the candles around the room. Was it my imagination or were they not making any difference? I could imagine the resentful shadows fighting back. This was the night of the Winter Solstice. This was their night.
Peterson, Markham and I were clustered out of everyone’s way, just inside the doorway. We watched Barnstaple set a small table alongside the chair, dust it fastidiously, and place the decanter and glass on the top. The fire was blazing nicely and if you didn’t know the purpose of this room and couldn’t smell the must, then everything would be lovely.
‘Well,’ said Henry cheerfully, looking around. ‘A good fire, books and wine. I think I shall spend a very comfortable night.’
Mr Chance looked down at his grimy hands, grimaced, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Wiping his hands, he regarded the dark smudges with distaste. Looking up, he saw me watching him, lifted his chin defiantly and tossed it into the fire. ‘Shall we look at our watches, gentlemen?’
I was pleased to see he had a slight struggle removing his watch from his tightly straining pocket. I suspected our Mr Chance visited Harewood Hall rather frequently. On the Off-Chance of a good meal, perhaps. OK, I promise I’ll stop now.
Peterson and Markham had remained nearer to the door. I knew if anything was to happen, Markham, at least, wouldn’t miss a trick.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr Chance, softly. ‘I make the time six minutes to midnight.’
‘And I,’ said Mr Lillywhite.
Mr Harewood fumbled for his own watch. ‘And I.’ He walked over to his wife. ‘Don’t wait, my dear. Go back into the warm. I shall see you before you know it.’
Mrs Harewood took an audible breath, stepped into the room and took her husband’s hand. ‘Do you have everything you need, Henry?’
‘I do indeed.’ He patted her hand.
She lifted her chin. ‘In that case, my dear, I shall wish you a very good night.’ Her voice was firm and her glance didn’t waver.
He kissed her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Letitia. Sleep well.’
She took one long, last look around the room – just a conscientious wife making sure her husband had everything to make him comfortable – bade us all a general goodnight and withdrew. Slowly and without running. I admired her restraint.
Mr Chance began to move towards the door. ‘Do you have your key, Mr Harewood?’
He patted his breast pocket. ‘Quite safe, Chance.’
‘Please remember, Mr Harewood, under no circumstances can the door be opened before the end of the Ordeal. That is very important.’
Henry Harewood nodded.
For a moment I thought Mr Chance would say something else – something comforting, perhaps, but after a long pause he said only, ‘Remember, Mr Harewood, to lock your side of the door.’
‘I shan’t forget.’
The Reverend Lillywhite bowed formally and followed him out, very carefully not touching anything in case he caught a nasty dose of paganism.
We all listened as Mr Harewood locked the door from his side. As he finished, the clock in the hall began to toll midnight. The time of the Ordeal was upon us.
I watched Chance lock the door and pocket his key. I watched Lillywhite lock the door and pocket his key. Having done so, they seemed at rather a loss as to what to do next.
Peterson yawned and said it was time for him to go to bed as well and that seemed to be a signal for everyone to shuffle their feet and disperse to a muttered chorus of goodnights.
Markham had already disappeared but I would bet good money he wasn’t far away.
The house was completely silent as I helped Peterson back to his room. Mr Harewood was locked in for the night and come what may, no one would let him out before morning.
Eliza was waiting for me in my room. It would seem that in addition to the shawl, Mrs Harewood had also loaned me a nightdress and wrapper. Not a froth of lace and ribbons, I noted, but something sensible in light wool. I sighed. At what point in my life had the universe deemed me unsuitable for frivolous nightwear and decided that wool was to be my lot henceforth? But it was a very pretty pink and, watching the curtains billow slightly at the windows, I was certain I’d be grateful for the warmth.
Eliza was very helpful with the corsets – which made me glad I’d gone with contemporary underwear. Uncorseted women were an affront to God and society. And she wouldn’t let me take down my own hair, either. She busied herself tidying my stuff away, spinning it out as long as she could. I suspected she didn’t want to walk back to the Servants’ Hall on her own. Eventually, even she couldn’t linger any longer.
‘Shall I leave the candles burning, ma’am?’
‘Yes, please, but take one for yourself if you need it.’
I climbed into bed for the look of the thing. It was soft and the sheets were warm. She’d obviously been at them with the warming pan. She turned at the door and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Goodnight, ma’am.’
‘Goodnight, Eliza.’
She closed the door quietly behind her.
; I waited five minutes for her to get clear. The clock on the mantel said twenty past twelve. I pulled on my unglamorous but warm dressing gown and eased open my door. Believe it or not, such scandalous behaviour was probably the most hazardous part of this night. Peterson was only across the landing but brother or otherwise, anyone caught creeping into a bedroom not their own in these times would be out on their ear before the shouting stopped. I stood for a moment, listening carefully. I had my story ready. If anyone appeared, I thought I had heard my brother calling. But there was nothing. No sinister footsteps. Not even a mouse scratching behind the wooden panelling. The landing was well lit by a large candelabra at each end and another at the head of the stairs, and there were no hiding places.
I slipped out through the door, closing it quietly behind me, and ghosted across to Peterson’s room. He was alone. Markham, I guessed, was still concealed downstairs, watching for foul play.
Peterson was wearing gaily striped PJs in blue and white, which is not a sight to encounter unexpectedly. I did not reel but that’s only because I’m supposed to be a highly trained professional. ‘Good God, you look like a convict.’
He smoothed the front of his PJs and looked down at himself. ‘I thought I looked quite dashing.’
‘First things first,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a look at your foot.’
Actually, it looked much better. Still black but the swelling had greatly subsided. A tribute to the housekeeper’s ointment, I said. A tribute to his superior constitution, he said.
‘I’m fine,’ he continued, bravely. ‘As long as I keep my foot flat and don’t flex it, it hardly hurts at all.’
‘Good,’ I said, losing interest. It had only been a polite enquiry anyway. I’d have said good if it had actually fallen off and I’d accidentally kicked it across the floor.
‘What do you think will happen?’ he said, leaning back on his pillows.