The entire crowd around the courtyard fountain lay riddled with silence. Barbara’s tongue felt bitter cold, like icicles.
���How could I have been so foolish?��� she thought to herself.
It was murder to step inside Wolcott Manor, so much so that no one had ever done it, let alone to try to sneak up to the gable, by one’s self, alone in the dark. It was absolute murder.
Chapter Four
Murder
���Ah, you’ve killed me again,��� Timothy exclaimed, looking over the octagon shaped, chess-like board in front of him, desperately trying to retrace his movements to discover how he had been beaten, so handily.
���Yes, but you’re getting better,��� Matilde said smiling, like maybe she was just being a good sport to encourage her grandson.
���Hardly,��� he let out, and went back again to examining the game board before him.
The two had passed the time that night engaged in several long spirited rounds of ���Ether-rian���, as his grandmother called it. Which was the most bizarre variation of chess that Timothy could’ve imagined, with pieces for giants and dragons, and actual troop movements (like you might find on one of those large maps that generals use to plan wars). The pair had been playing intently since well before sunset, and by then it was nearing midnight, as Matilde began to disassemble the game pieces, placing them into a clever, gold-lined box.
���Can we play again tomorrow night?��� Timothy asked, as his grandmother removed the final knight piece from the board.
���My dear, you are a sore loser, aren’t you?��� she said, smiling at him. Which was a true statement, although Timothy didn’t like to think of himself in those terms.
���Nooo,��� he held out the word to emphasize it. ���I just want to figure this out,��� he said, placing his forehead on his hands (like you might do if you’ve been frustrated), and knowing that he’d been royally beaten that night.
Matilde gave her grandson a tender look.
Then she smirked, and patted him lovingly on the cheek. ���Fine, I’d be happy to let you lose again, if you’d like.���
���Now off to bed with you,��� she continued, ushering him away from the kitchen table and through the hallway, toward his downstairs bedroom.
His head was tired from over thinking. He skidded his feet on the wood floor planks, and he thought to expect, as we all might, a restful night’s sleep in his new feathery bed. But certainly, things do not always go as planned. For tonight was, indeed, intended to be a tad bit more than restful.
Barbara did wish that the girls on her floor would not have been so tearful in their goodbyes, as she crept carefully from the wing of her dormitory, on the final night of the school year. Being shrouded by the dim light of a new moon, she made it out across the field and along the dirt path that led to the Wolcott house, a pale dusty grey by the low starlight, like a tombstone set on a hill.
���Could the legends be true?��� she thought, as she edged toward that beastly house, feeling in no rush to come to her fate. Could Matilde Wolcott really have killed her best friend and hid the evidence of her murder in that distant attic gable?
It seemed an unlikely thing to believe in, but then again, how could every girl at Mayfield be wrong about such a thing. And considering, if it were true, how she would likely be in such dire and immediate danger.
The tip of her quarter-high shoe clipped the brim of a large rock, hidden along the path by the shadows and blackness of that night. She nearly fell.
Surely, weighing her options, running back now washed in fake tears might be acceptable. And then, perhaps forcing herself to vomit in the common loo would be a better fate than this.
However, Barbara Cholley was not as cowardly as all that, and did not prefer to be called names. And so she trudged onward, toward the unlit Victorian home on the crest of the hill overlooking Mayfield, knowing that whatever happened now would be unavoidable; Thinking that a brave death at the hands of that ���wicked old hag,��� Matilde Wolcott (as she was poorly called by some of the girls Barbara had grown acquainted with), that it would be a better fate than cowardice.
And in so doing she came to the malevolent front porch steps of that sinister looking house, in the deep darkness of that night, and took in a sizable breath.
���Ready?��� she asked herself, breathing out.
Chapter Five
The Burglar
His room and the rest of that grand house was by then completely darkened.
Timothy had been drifting on the edges of sleep for sometime that evening, and was almost entirely dreaming when he’d heard a sound. But not just any sound, this one being a faint high-pitched coo: Of the kind that a young girl might make, if she had been lurking through an unfamiliar home in the middle of the night, and had accidentally kicked a heavy, and altogether ill placed, decorative statue.
(Which incidentally was exactly what had happened to Barbara that night, and what had caused her to give a highly restrained yelp of pain. One that was just loud enough, however, to be heard from the main floor, and by Timothy, who was not yet fast asleep.)
His eyes opened fully, a bit scared. He stirred on his mattress, grasping at the bed comforter, hoping that quite possibly he had only imagined that sound. Yet still, to be safe, he listened intently at the chance that there might indeed be an intruder fumbling around in his grandmother’s large home, a home that was intriguing by the daylight hours, but still, altogether eerie to him after nightfall.
Goose pimples ran up the back of his neck. He had heard another tiny noise, what could possibly be the telltale creaking of an old wooden stair. It was obvious now, a burglar had got into the house.
(At this present time, you must bear in mind, that Timothy had not the luxury of history, as you and I now have, having no means at all by which to understand that these present sounds were being made by an innocent and terribly frightened young girl. And seeing as, while even in the midst of false dangers men may show true bravery, Timothy Hayfield did a very brave thing indeed, if not entirely thought out.)
Springing from beneath his covers, he swiped at the base of a silvery candlestick that had been set upon a small bedroom table near his door. And sneaking in his house slippers quietly through the downstairs hall, being sure to lift the candlestick holder high up in the air above his shoulder, to be used as a ready weapon like one might hold a sword or an American baseball bat, he tiptoed down the unlit hallway.
His breaths were shallow. His footsteps lightly chosen. He reached the bottom of the staircase and saw the vague shadow of an outline, which turned left at the top of the stairs and vanished from his sight. Although it was still remarkably dark, and by that time nearly impossible to know with any certainty the size of the figure, or to whom that shadow had belonged.
He snuck cautiously up the stairs, his steps being cushioned by his well padded evening slippers, following the direction of the shadowy figure, not altogether sure of where that thing was leading him to, until he heard the click of a door being opened and shut. Only one door in that portion of the house ever remained closed, so that he knew, in an instant, where this burglar had taken him, and he knew his grandmother would not be happy about it.
Chapter Six
Some Dangerous Secret
The door was unbolted.
He tried at the handle, turning it with care. Something moved within the room, it had heard him. Now he could no longer come at his intruder by surprise, and was therefore in more imminent danger, he thought.
Nevertheless, trying in a hurry to regain the upper hand, Timothy quickly pushed the door, flinging it open. He felt across the wall as if his life had depended on it, and switched on the light, but saw no one.
His voice wavered. ���I’m not afraid of you,��� he managed to say, somewhat untruthfully, and gripping more tightly to the silvery candlestick holder in his hands.
There was no clear response, the room still appeared to be empty. But listening more carefully he thought to have heard a most unexpected sound, crying.
It was true, he was sure of it. Timothy heard the noise of gentle girlish sobs coming from across the room, possibly from behind his grandmother’s large writing desk. Could it be that the hidden burglar had only been faking these sounds to throw him off his guard?
That, however, seemed so absurdly unlikely that Timothy didn’t give it much more thought, and instead went to go investigate this unsuspected sniffling. And what he found was a sad-looking blonde haired girl, dressed in a Mayfield school uniform. She was sobbing irreparably, clutching onto her knees with her head lowered, and seated in a ball underneath his grandmother’s desk. (This was not the sort of bravery that Barbara had hoped for.)
���Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?��� Timothy asked, rather reasonably to the girl beneath the desk.
���This is your house?��� she asked in return, looking surprised and wiping the streaks of tears from below her eyes, trying to appear more presentable.
���Well… no,��� he answered truthfully. ���Actually, it’s my grandmother’s, [and then with some authority in his voice] but I am staying here for the whole summer.���
Barbara sounded amazed by his answer.
���And you’re not afraid of her?��� she asked him.
Timothy laughed heartily. ���So says the girl who’s been sneaking around our house in the middle of the night…��� he grinned.
Barbara did not appreciate being laughed at, or about. And therefore, sitting up taller, more grown-up like, after managing to wipe nearly all the moisture from her eyes, she protested, ���It’s not like I’d wanted to.���
To Timothy, the young girl seemed frustrated with him now, and he was smart enough to realize that he would probably not come to any good ends by picking fun at her, and as such, he decided to go about things by a different route.
���Alright, why not tell me why you are here then?��� he said, having a seat behind the desk, legs crossed, to hear her side of the story as it were. ���And why, on earth, I should be frightened of my own grandmother?���
This new approach seemed to work better for both of them, and Barbara did like being offered the opportunity to explain herself. However, first she’d needed to make sure they were ���safe���, as she called it, and refused to begin her story until Timothy had gone to switch off the main light, and had got for them two small candles instead. (This was so that Matilde Wolcott, who very well might go wandering through the halls in the middle of the night, would not by chance see drifts of light coming from within her forbidden attic study.)
These preparations took some time, but only because Timothy had to silently hunt around, in a pitch dark house, for a set of matches. Yet, eventually all was ready, and the two unlikely companions sat behind the desk, both holding lighted candles that washed a flickering glow onto their faces.
Here, and as follows, more or less, is what Barbara had said that night (with some of the more reliable information being added to help fill the gaps in her understanding of it):
For many years, it had been common knowledge amongst the girls at Mayfield that Delany Calbefur had been murdered. While the surviving governesses and the schoolmasters all seemed detached from reality, completely denying that any such murder had ever taken place, the girls at Mayfield knew better.
And while, for a long time, the true nature of that crime had remained a mystery, the students on the grounds of Mayfield would receive a yearly reminder, a quick flash of light through the high gable window, annually, just after midnight. (Or more precisely, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days from the time and date of Delany’s first disappearance, an unearthly shot of light would shine out from that tiny window, which some girls had thought to be Delany’s ghost come back to haunt what was once known as the old Greyford house: First named for businessman and collector, Arthur Greyford, but was now renamed for its new owner.)
[Here Timothy interrupted her telling to say that she was, ���silly to fall for such a story like that.��� And that he didn’t believe in ghosts. Yet to her own defense, Barbara was quick to say that she didn’t believe in ghosts either, and that she was just repeating what she had heard.]
And so as the years passed, the legend of Delany Calbefur’s murder, and the variations of it, became simply that, a legend. Growing ever more conjectured and imaginative, the truer nature of that crime being lost to history, until one day. Until the day that Mattie Hardy came back to Mayfield, as a grown woman, as Mrs. Matilde Wolcott, and had snatched up the old Greyford home for herself, along with its tangled history of murder. At which point, the flashes of light became more regular, and the truth about Timothy’s grandmother had at last been revealed.
���Matilde Wolcott killed her best friend, and hid the evidence in the attic gable,��� she said at the end of her stories, drawing out the words rather creepily.
���You’re lying,��� he said, with some hostility.
���Don’t blame me. I’m just repeating what I heard,��� she replied.
Timothy’s face made a frowned expression. ���Well it’s your fault for believing such rubbish,��� he muttered, looking cross. Which was clearly seen, even by pale candlelight, so that Barbara could tell her story was not well liked.
���And, by the way, what are you doing snooping in the attic here, if you’re so scared of her?��� Timothy continued.
Barbara did not like the tone in his voice, but chose to overlook it.
���I had to,��� she admitted. And she went on further to explain the rule for ���first-yearers���, and how she’d been pestered about it all year long, and how that this night had been the last night of the school year, her final chance to prove she was not frightened.
It seemed like a reasonable enough explanation, except that Timothy still did not take well to this girl barging in at all hours of the night, to accuse his family of murder.
���Sounds like a made-up story to me,��� he finally said, with half his wick already melted down to the bottom.
There was a silence, and then Barbara’s eyes widened with a clever gleam, like she was going to enjoy what she was about to say.
���Yah,��� she blurted quickly. ���Well if you’re such a smarty, then tell me, where does the light come from?���
Timothy was puzzled, and his expression gave him away.
���Someone’s got to be turning it on,��� she continued. ���If your grandmother’s not a murderer [and Barbara leaned forward over the flickering candle flame to make her point], then where’s the entrance to the gable?���
(It should be noted that Barbara had asked a very decent question, so that, furthermore, she should be commended for her good sense of direction and logic. For truly said, that attic study was the highest and nearest room in the house, to the gable in question. So that, if there were going to be an entrance to it at all, it would have to be found there, but here in this forbidden attic study there was no entrance to be seen. And who keeps a hidden room, unless it had contained some dangerous secret? Or so were Barbara’s thoughts on the matter.)
Howbeit, Timothy would not bear such wild accusations to be made about his close relations. And so, by ever dimming candlelight, the pair set about to prove their respective points, and thusly, by elimination, disproving the other’s. But what they found was nothing at all like they had expected.
Hidden in a greenish-tinted old bottle on his grandmother’s desk, and rolled up like a shipwreck note was a handwritten letter, very ornately and beautifully scripted using an inkwell pen. Timothy unraveled the letter, holding it up to the candlelight as Barbara read in gasping whispers the contents of that note.
Dearest Mattie,
As you
well know, tomorrow is Corwan’s birthday celebration, and there will be music, and a parade, and a festival in his honor. And while I do respect your decision to stay on Earth for the summer, with your grandson, I would selfishly hope you might reconsider and come back just this once more for the party. It would mean so much to him, and to all of us, and to me.
And although it is not beneath my stature to beg, I shall try to restrain myself. The choice is yours. For always your friend.
And it was signed with elegant penmanship:
Her Majesty the Queen,
Delany
���You know what this means?��� Barbara said, with wide-eyed amazement. ���Delany Calbefur is still alive. Your grandmother’s not a murder after all.���
���It’s more than that,��� Timothy spoke up, pointing to the contents of the letter. ���She may still be alive, but she’s not still on Earth.���
Chapter Seven
The Hidden Room
Footsteps.
Footsteps out in the hall, climbing a brief set of stairs to the forbidden attic study. Almost caught.
They puffed out their candles and Timothy had the forethought to re-roll the letter, sliding it back into the bottle.
���Hide,��� Barbara whispered, motioning for Timothy to follow her underneath the desk. It was not a very thought out plan, and an uncomfortably tight squeeze. In fact, Timothy was about to ask if she wouldn’t mind moving her elbow, when suddenly the door opened, and Barbara shushed him to be quiet.
A desk lamp was lighted and its shadows played across the upstairs attic. The greenish hued bottle was lifted and the rolled letter slid out into Matilde’s hands, then silence. From his poor hiding place, crouched beneath the desk, Timothy thought the silence might be because his grandmother had taken the time to reread her friend’s mysterious note, which was the case.
The old woman reached her hand around the table, barely missing Timothy’s shoulder, as she felt for the drawer handle. A slip of white writing paper, and a pen scribbled out her message. She wrapped it up quickly, pushing it back into the bottle with the palm of her hand.
The Histories of Earth, Books 1-4: In the Window Room, A Prince of Earth, All the Worlds of Men, and Worlds Unending Page 11