‘Does she interest you?’ asked Uncle Bertram. ‘There’s a much bigger painting of her in the West Drawing-room, with her husband. Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘It’s along here. Hasn’t been used for many years now. I remember it being shut up when I was a small boy. The servants refused to clean it. Said it was haunted. Things moved around by themselves and there were strange noises in the night. Nothing to worry about, though. The house wouldn’t accept the presence of evil spirits for long.’
‘You talk about this house almost as if it were a person,’ said Melissa.
‘Do I?’ chuckled Uncle Bertram. ‘I suppose it is almost a person to me. It’s part of my flesh and bones and I love it more than anything. Excepting Augusta, of course. Here we are.’
And he swung open a door on their left. It was very dark for the curtains were drawn to protect the carpets and furniture from the sun.
‘Goodness, it’s dusty in here,’ exclaimed Uncle Bertram, as he flung back the curtains. Daylight filtered into the room. The walls were panelled and painted with birds and butterflies and flowers. The chairs were covered in faded blue silk and the fireplace was white marble with a lion’s head carved at each end. Over the fireplace hung a large painting and the children recognized instantly the faces smiling down at them. The fair head inclined slightly towards the dark one and they were both strikingly handsome. They were standing in the garden and the colours were as fresh as if they had just been painted.
Melissa felt sad to remember that their happiness had been brought to such an abrupt end. She stroked the arm of the sofa, marvelling at the fineness and softness of the material. She touched the dented cushions on the seat and then withdrew her hand sharply, with a little start. The cushion was warm to the touch as if someone had just been sitting there. And, was it her imagination, or had she felt a slight breath on her cheek?
‘It’s a beautiful room,’ she said aloud. ‘What a shame to close it up. Can we go and see some others now?’
They drew the curtains and went out. A little way along the corridor Uncle Bertram stopped by one of the closed doors.
‘This room has rather a blood-curdling history,’ he said, taking a key from his dressing-gown pocket. ‘It has been closed for at least two hundred years. It was the bedroom of my great-great-great aunt. Helena was her name.’
He opened the door and the children saw a gloomy room, dominated by a four-poster draped in black velvet.
‘She is supposed to have been very beautiful and much courted by the young men of the west country. But she favoured a handsome, dashing foreigner and spurned the advances of her other suitors. Her father refused to give his consent to the marriage, not because the young man was a foreigner but because he sensed that he had what they called in those days “bad blood”. Eventually they ran away together and went to live in London. It seemed that her father was right, however, for her husband soon began to treat her most cruelly, keeping her prisoner in the house, forbidding her new clothes or money and utterly neglecting her. She was too proud to go back to her father and so endured her loneliness and his unkindness for many years. One day though, he lost his temper and thrashed her little dog of whom she was inordinately fond, causing the poor little animal’s death. She was heart-broken and that night fled back to Hadlows, vowing never to set eyes on her husband again. She lived here for some time in comparative peace. But at last her husband found his life of extravagance and selfishness empty and unrewarding. He repented of his cruelty to his lovely wife and wrote to her many times, begging her to forgive him. But she hardened herself against him and would not listen. All the hatred she felt for him rose up in her heart and she became ill with the bitterness of her thoughts. He continued his entreaties but she would not forgive him. At last he came himself to Hadlows, forced his way into the house and entered this room. She lay in this great black bed, staring with frightened eyes, not saying a word. And it was then I think that her mind became unhinged. For, as he knelt at her bedside confessing his guilt and begging her to forgive him, she took a dagger from beneath her pillow and stabbed him to the heart. The bloodstain is still there if you care to look.’
Sebastian examined it closely with great interest, and Melissa could not resist a quick look.
‘Are there any more bloodstains in the house?’ asked Sebastian.
‘Yes, two more. They’re both in the east tower. That’s where the studio is too. I think we’ll just have time to go there before tea.’
‘What happened to your Great-Aunt Helena?’ asked Melissa as they trooped along corridors and up and down staircases.
‘She outlived her husband by one year, quite mad and in the end took her own life by throwing herself off the battlements.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Melissa, shuddering. ‘What a terrible mistake she made.’
‘Yes, indeed. It is always a mistake not to forgive.’
By this time they had reached the east tower which corresponded exactly to the one which housed the library.
They began to climb the spiral staircase.
‘Just here,’ said Uncle Bertram, pointing to the stair on which his foot rested, ‘is our second bloodstain.’
The children examined the brown patch on the smooth stone with great curiosity.
‘The body of the third Baronet was found here. He was clubbed to death apparently by some of his tenants whom he had evicted in favour of others who could pay a higher rent. He was a greedy, selfish man and no one mourned his passing much.’
They continued further up the staircase.
‘And here, very close to the second, is our third bloodstain. It’s a rather more inspiring story. I expect you read about the Civil War at school?’
‘You mean the Cavaliers and the Roundheads?’ asked Melissa.
Uncle Bertram nodded. ‘The Langtons were royalists of course. As landowners it was in their interest to be so, and, as you’ve probably realized by now, most wars are fought over possessions rather than ideals. Well, when the King’s army was defeated by Cromwell and Charles I was beheaded, the ninth Baronet, Maximillian, who had been wounded in the fighting, came back to Hadlows where he hoped to be able to recover his strength before setting sail for France. But the neighbourhood was overrun with Cromwell’s troops who were searching out the last of the King’s army in order to bring them to justice. Maximillian had to hide in the woods until nightfall. Then he crept into the house, to find his wife and family gone, the house ransacked and only a faithful old servant to greet him. This man had kept his post by falsely swearing an oath of loyalty to the Commonwealth. A few hours after Maximillian’s homecoming there was a hammering at the front door and cries of “Open in the name of the Protector”. Cromwell’s men had come.
‘Maximillian realized that one of the villagers must have seen him and given him away and that all hope was lost. He told the faithful servant to open the door and take the soldiers to him. He would never swear an oath of allegiance to Cromwell, but the servant might as well save himself. He then came to this room, which had been his favourite in happier times, commanding, as you can see, a fine view of the rose gardens.’
The children looked through the windows at the rainswept lawns and the roses rambling high and wild against the dull sky.
‘He sat here in this very chair, opened his journal and began to write his farewell. This is his journal here, on the table. He was still writing when the soldiers came in. Then the journal ceases. What happened then one can only guess, but when the house was restored some years later, they found two skeletons, one sitting in this chair with a dagger in his throat and another lying at his feet, a dagger in his back. It seems the servant was faithful to his master to the very end.’
Melissa looked at the faded leather-bound volume lying on the table. ‘How silly men are,’ she said. ‘Always fighting wars and killing each other. Poor Maximillian. He was brave about it, though.’
‘Yes. Well, I think we’ve had
enough gore for today. Let’s go up and have a quick look at the studio.’
The studio was right at the top of the tower and of recent construction. The roof was all glass and the walls were freshly painted. It smelled strongly of oils and turpentine. An easel stood in the centre of the room and there were jars of brushes and pots of paint surrounding it.
‘I say, I’m not awfully hungry,’ said Sebastian. ‘Would you mind if I missed tea and stayed on here to start my painting?’
The studio was a painter’s dream and Sebastian’s hands itched to smooth the canvas on the stretchers and mix the paints on the wooden palette.
‘All right,’ laughed Uncle Bertram. ‘I’ll ask Fandeagle to bring you up some food later. Come on, Melissa, I can see we’re positively in the way.’
Sebastian didn’t even hear them go out. He was already unrolling the strips of canvas and thinking about his composition.
Aunt Augusta, Uncle Bertram and Melissa had tea together in the drawing-room which had been dusted for the occasion and a large fire blazed in the grate. It looked very friendly and pleasant, not like the last time Melissa had seen it. After tea Melissa continued to read to Aunt Augusta, while Uncle Bertram wrote some letters.
While they spent the evening so peacefully, Sebastian was working away high in the east tower, preparing the canvas and sorting his colours. The rain trickled and splashed against the glass roof. Just as he was about to make the first mark on the canvas, he realized that the light was going and even now it was too dark to be certain of the colours he was mixing.
‘Never mind. I’ll be able to start first thing tomorrow,’ he thought to himself as he washed his brushes.
He went out, shutting the door behind him. He wound his way down the staircase, stepping round the blood of the third Baronet half-way down. Then he heard a door bang, high above his head.
‘Oh bother. I can’t have closed the door properly. I’d better go back and shut it, I suppose. The wind might blow it off its hinges.’
As he began to climb the stairs once more, a low growl of thunder shook the air.
‘A storm’s coming. Perhaps we’ll have fine weather tomorrow. The light will be good for — hallo, what’s that?’
From where he stood he could see the door of the studio above him. It was open and standing before it was a dark shape. From the shadows a hand stretched towards him and beckoned to him to rise.
Sebastian’s scalp contracted and his breath came unevenly. Then, very slowly, the shadow drifted down the steps towards him, the outstretched hand beckoning him still. A hateful stench met Sebastian’s nostrils, foul and rotting like a disease. His body felt weak and powerless: he could not run away. There was a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, and in that flash Sebastian saw something that made him cry out in agony. Death stood before him in the shape of the foulest demon that evil could invent. Great wings of shadow stretched up against the tower walls and Sebastian sank to his knees, a scorching pain in his forehead, his life fast flowing from him. Then he felt a wind rush past him and a man dressed in black and silver sprang between Sebastian and the shadow. He drew his sword and the blade whistled and sang as it sank deep into the dark shadow. Again and again the blade bit deep into the horrible mass. The shadow rose to a great height and towered over the man.
‘Begone, foul spectre,’ cried a strong voice. ‘Life, health, strength, and love, in the name of these, I strike my blade to your very heart.’ And he lifted his sword and plunged it to the hilt into the stinking horror. There was a dull hissing and then Sebastian saw the shadow sink to the ground and vaporize at the feet of the one who stood holding his sword aloft, his black hair flowing about his face, as pale as death. Sebastian fell into unconsciousness, the name of ‘Falcon’ on his lips.
‘What was that?’ cried Melissa, jumping to her feet as a crash of thunder shook the house.
‘It’s just the storm, my dear. No need to be alarmed,’ said Aunt Augusta with surprise.
‘No, there was something else! I heard a cry.’ Melissa covered her face with her hands, filled with an unspeakable dread. Just then Fandeagle’s voice could be heard in the hall.
‘Master! We must get help quickly. The boy’s been hurt!’ And he came in, carrying in his arms the limp body of Sebastian. Aunt Augusta gave a cry of distress and Uncle Bertram rushed to help Fandeagle lower Sebastian on to the sofa.
‘Quickly, Fandeagle. Take my old horse from the stables and ride for the doctor. Where did you find him?’
‘At the bottom of the stairs in the east tower. He must have slipped and hit his head. I’ll go at once.’
Melissa knelt beside the sofa on which Sebastian lay and smoothed his hair back from his face. Then she drew back her hand with a little cry. The heat from the pale forehead was so intense that it was like touching a burning coal.
She drew her breath in sharply. Now she knew why she had been filled with such a strong sense of foreboding a few moments ago. Whatever had happened to Sebastian, it had not been an accident.
Uncle Bertram fetched a wet cloth from the kitchen and laid it on Sebastian’s forehead, loosened his collar and arranged some cushions to make him more comfortable.
‘I’ll never forgive myself if this boy’s badly hurt,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I should have spoken out before.’
‘Bertram! What do you mean?’ cried Aunt Augusta.
‘Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I feel responsible for him. He’s a guest in my house.’
‘I’m sure Sebastian would hate to hear you talking like that,’ said Aunt Augusta. ‘He’s too old to have us fussing about him. It was an accident which could have happened to anyone. Come now, don’t let’s behave like silly women. We can help him best by being practical.’
But Melissa knew that Aunt Augusta was hiding a great anxiety. They all sighed with relief when they heard the wheels of the doctor’s carriage on the drive.
The doctor was a long time in his examination. Then at last he said, ‘No bones broken anyway. But he has a bad fever. He’ll probably become delirious during the night. Keep the wet cloth on his head and give him this medicine every two hours. He mustn’t be left alone at all tonight in case the fever becomes worse. I’d like a few words alone with you, Sir Bertram, if I may?’
Fandeagle carried Sebastian upstairs to his room and Melissa followed him, leaving the doctor and Uncle Bertram engaged in low-toned conversation in the hall.
Melissa was determined to sit up through the night with Sebastian for she was sure that she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.
‘I wonder what the doctor is saying to Uncle Bertram?’ she thought to herself, settling herself in a chair beside Sebastian’s bed. ‘Poor Sebastian. He really is very ill. Still, Fandeagle will take care of him better than anyone else could. I wonder —?’
Despite her good intentions her eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. And before she could conclude her thoughts, Melissa fell fast asleep.
She awoke with a start to find that Fandeagle was shaking her roughly by the shoulder.
‘Quickly, Melissa. Wake up. The time has come to further our quest. I have received the sign.’
He held up a white feather, which fluttered in the dark night wind seeping through the casement. Melissa struggled to her feet, too sleepy to ask questions. She went to the bed where Sebastian lay. He was very white and still, the slight stirring of the bedclothes the only indication that he still breathed.
‘All is well,’ said Fandeagle. ‘Go downstairs, as quiet as a mouse and wait in the garden. I cannot leave Sebastian in case he should wake, but there is another who will help you. You must find Hermes and persuade him to take a part in the struggle that is yet to come. Don’t be afraid. Hermes is a fierce god in battle but gentle with mortals if they deserve his help.’
Melissa nodded and tried to shake off her tiredness. It was a relief to hear this about Hermes for she didn’t feel able to engage in trials of strength that night. She smiled at Fandeagle and went out i
nto the corridor. She crept down the great staircase and opened the front door. The wind swept into the house and almost knocked her down. The glass pendants of the chandeliers jangled noisily against one another.
She pulled the door shut behind her and stepped quickly out across the lawn. A gust of rain showered against her and the moon was hidden by fast-moving clouds which made the night black and unfriendly. The wind dragged at her hair and dress and flung small stinging twigs into her face.
‘Hurry up, whoever you are,’ she muttered under her breath, her teeth chattering. ‘I shall shiver myself into small pieces if I have to wait much longer. Sebastian always says that it’s better to let the wind go through you and not try to fight it. Let’s see.’
She stood up as straight as she could and hung her arms loosely at her sides. At first it was like being tortured but then it quickly grew better and she could feel the blood throbbing back into her hands and feet. She felt cold still but it was exhilarating, almost enjoyable.
Suddenly the wind paused in its fury and the moon came from behind the clouds. The house was illuminated and she saw something white fluttering against the dark pane of a window. A strange sound came from somewhere over the trees, a rhythmic whirring like the spinning of a rope. Then she understood what it was. Beneath the moon came a flight of great white birds, their wings flowing like water, and from the window flew out another to join them.
‘It’s the swan from the table in the dining hall!’ cried Melissa. ‘So it is alive after all.’
And then the wind rushed back over the garden and the air was filled with wings and a drift of feathers. She felt herself borne upwards. Her eyes were blinded by feathers and her own hair; her ears were filled with the sound of the beating wings. And how pleasant it was. No longer cold, nor yet warm. It felt as if her body had ceased to exist. But her mind was extraordinarily alive. Such marvellous thoughts came to her and her mind was filled with knowledge that she had never possessed before. She was just about to solve the secret of the universe when there was a gentle bump, a rustling of wings and then silence.
The House Called Hadlows Page 10