Deadlight Hall

by Sarah Rayne

  Please accept my sincere thanks for confirming the appointment agreed by the Trust last month. I am most grateful for this opportunity, particularly since, as you know, Mr Porringer passed on recently. He was an apothecary, in a good way of business, but after his death the shop had to pass to a distant cousin. However, I helped with running the shop for many years, and I dealt solely with the accounts. I permitted no nonsense of any kind from staff we employed, and did not tolerate impudence or familiarity from customers. You can therefore be sure that I shall wield a firm hand within Deadlight Hall.

  I suppose if Mr John Hurst from Willow Bank Farm wants to provide some lessons for the children, that will be acceptable, although it should be made clear that we have no funds for such things.

  On a separate note, the other, private arrangement you propose is acceptable. Carpenters and workmen have already been engaged and given specific instructions.

  Very truly yours,

  Maria Porringer (Mrs)

  Michael frowned at the handwriting, because he had the strong impression that he had seen it before. But each century had its own style and fashion in writing, and probably most letters from the late 1800s would have been written in the same kind of hand. He would simply be recognizing the style of that era.

  He reread the last paragraph, intrigued by the mention of a ‘private arrangement’, then read on.

  Deadlight Hall

  September 1879

  My dear Mr Breadspear

  You will be glad to know that the incident last week (I wrote to you about it) has been satisfactorily resolved, and I have taken steps to ensure it cannot be repeated. You will note the locksmith’s accounts in this month’s figures. There will also be a further carpenter’s bill, for it was necessary to strengthen the door at the same time.

  Mr John Hurst calls every Saturday afternoon, although I am not happy about this. Last week I asked him not to teach the children poetry and suchlike, never mind if it is Shakespeare or Lord Byron, and yet only yesterday I caught him reading some high-flown verses to them, actually describing the behaviour of devils, such ungodliness. When I challenged Mr Hurst, he had the impudence to say he was reading John Milton’s Paradise Lost to the children, and it was one of the world’s great classics.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the classics may be all very fine, but filling up children’s heads with rubbish about the drunken Sons of Belial seems most unsuitable.’

  ‘But,’ said the infuriating man, ‘we should always be wary of demons and devils, Mrs Porringer. Indeed, the Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs warns us against Belial in particular – it tells us that fornication separates man from God and brings him near to Belial.’

  Well, Mr Breadspear, I did not know where to look for the shame of such language, and the worst of it was I believe the man was laughing at me. I have yet to meet a more impious and disrespectful person than John Hurst.

  I am respectfully yours,

  Maria Porringer (Mrs)

  Deadlight Hall

  March 1880

  Dear Mr Breadspear

  I am a plain-speaking woman, and I am not best pleased by our sparse financial arrangements since the start of the year. I hope I am not one to be what the Bible calls greedy of filthy lucre, but the labourer is worthy of his hire. I am quite run off my feet, what with feeding and clothing the small ones, which is something to be considered, even with the charitable donations from ladies of the parish, including Lady Buckle’s cast-offs, which usually smell of boiled cabbage and Sir George’s pipe tobacco.

  In addition to all that, I now have the two Mabbley girls, who came here in January as you know. (I was not at all surprised to be asked to take those two, for we all know what kind of come-day, go-day creature Polly Mabbley is). This means a total of fourteen children in all, and a deal of hard work.

  As well as that there is, of course, the other duty I am performing, which takes up a considerable amount of my time.

  In the past fortnight I have had approaches from two gentlemen looking for workers for their manufactories. If better arrangements cannot be made between us, these gentlemen’s terms might suit better, and I shall have to think whether it would be advantageous to send some of the children to them (once of working age, of course) rather than to Salamander House.

  I would be glad if you would oblige with an early reply.

  Yours respectfully

  Maria Porringer (Mrs)

  Infuriatingly, this was the final letter from Maria Porringer, and the only document following it was a note of some land attached to the Hall being transferred in 1948. Michael glanced at this rather perfunctorily, and saw that the land had in fact been transferred to an S. Hurst. Might that be the same family as Jack Hurst who was renovating Deadlight Hall? And was the irreverent John Hurst referred to by Maria Porringer a forbear?

  There were just two more documents relating to Deadlight Hall and, as with some of the earlier documents, they were incomplete – in fact the first was very nearly fragmentary. It seemed to relate to an inquest, but the edges were so jagged it was difficult to make out the heading. The whole thing had the appearance of having been Sellotaped together and scanned onto the computer by somebody who had probably said, ‘It isn’t much, but it’s a corner of local history, so let’s include it.’ The section bearing the name of the deceased had been torn away altogether, but the place of death was clearly stated as having been Deadlight Hall.

  The verdict on the unfortunate unknown was Death by Misadventure, and a handwritten note in the ‘Cause of Death’ section simply said, ‘Unable to determine cause due to extreme and severe damage and incomplete condition of remains.’

  Near the bottom was a rider from the jury, to the effect that Deadlight Hall be fenced off and secured against further mishap.

  The second document was a tender for work at the Hall and although the date was blurred by time or damp, it seemed to follow from the recommendation of the Coroner’s jury. It gave an estimate of £75.12s.6d for the work required and trusted this would be acceptable.

  ‘Work to include disconnecting, so far as possible, all plumbing and heating outlets and all furnace vents as per our detailed list, to include labour, materials, and making good. Duration of work would be one week.’

  A note had been added, explaining that it would be ‘nigh on impossible to disconnect the entire contraption on account of the plumbing being integral to the water supply as well as the hot water heating system.’

  The writer had never come across such an arrangement, not in all his years as a master plumber, but it was his opinion that if you took out the whole contraption, you would very likely end up causing the collapse of the entire ground floor. He did not, therefore, recommend complete removal under any circumstances, and would not do it if fifty Coroners’ juries were to tell him to.

  The Deadlight Hall documents ended with this, and there did not seem to be anything more.

  Michael managed to fathom the printing procedure, and printed two copies of the inquest notes and scrappy tender, together with Maria Porringer’s letters. He would let Professor Rosendale have copies as soon as possible.

  Returning to College, he was greeted by the news that Wilberforce had caught a sparrow during his morning perambulation, which he appeared to have partly eaten, before losing interest and leaving the remains in a pink suede boot belonging to a second year. The second year, who hailed from Kensington and seldom let people forget this, complained vociferously to Michael. The boots, it seemed, were Philip Plein, they had cost an absolute fortune, and Mummy and Daddy were going to be seriously furious over the entire thing.

  Michael, who had never heard of Philip Plein, made a mental note to check his provenance with Nell and rather fruitlessly explained to the second year that cats only left these offerings to people they liked. The second year was having none of this. She said it was a disgrace the way flesh-eating predators preyed on poor defenceless little birds and ripped them to shreds, in fact Mummy was president
of half-a-dozen wildlife societies and it so happened that the second year was currently canvassing for contributions on Mummy’s behalf.

  Michael promised to invoke various insurances for the replacement of the boots, after which he signed up for a twelve-month donation to one of the wildlife societies. The second year was somewhat mollified at this, thought she would replace the pink suede, which was rather last-year, with grey, and helped Michael dispose of the corpse in one of the flower beds.

  Honour being satisfied all round, Michael escaped to his rooms to immerse himself in the relative sanity of the essays on the metaphysical poets.

  He put what he was already calling the Porringer letters into a drawer, ready to show to Professor Rosendale, and started to read the first of the essays which was by a particularly promising first-year student who was already showing signs of heading for a Double First, providing he could stay on track.

  NINE

  London

  Spring 1944

  Dear J.W.

  I think I may have been slightly mad or possibly even a little inebriated when I agreed to travel to London to meet Schönbrunn. But Schönbrunn has that effect on people, so, as you see, here I am and we shall start the search for the Reiss twins at once. I will try to leave poste restante addresses for you, so that if the twins do send a message to their parents (and I pray they will), you can let me know. For the moment, any correspondence sent in care of Drummonds Bank in Charing Cross will reach me.

  London is war-torn – not quite as badly as our own Warsaw and Prague, but certainly battered. I have always liked this city, just as I have always liked this country. The British are a resilient race, with a truly remarkable way of seeing humour in misfortune and tragedy. They have made up raucous and very derogatory songs about Hitler, which they sing in their theatres and public houses. Even during an air raid, people in the shelters will make rude gestures to the Luftwaffe, making light of the fact that German bombs might be exploding their homes to splinters as they do so.

  I am hoping I pass as sufficiently English not to arouse any suspicion. My knowledge of the language is fairly good, I think, although I am careful not to speak unless necessary, because my accent could so easily be taken to be German. Schönbrunn, on the other hand, could pass in almost any country in the world as a native, and he has the most extraordinary gift for blending into any company. I have now been with him into several public houses, and incredibly in each one there is someone who puts up a hand in a gesture of greeting and recognition. Or, of course, it may be that he is simply choosing places where he knows there will be contacts.

  You are right not to tell the twins’ parents yet that they have vanished. We should not worry them until we know the truth.

  Tomorrow Schönbrunn is taking me to a small village in Oxfordshire. This is where the twins and also Leo Rosendale were originally placed – Leo is still there, we believe – so Schönbrunn feels that is where we must begin.

  I wondered if we should seek out Leo, who might remember something useful about the twins – those three were such friends – but Schönbrunn thinks it better not. It could distress Leo unnecessarily, he says, and there is also the point that we do not want to draw attention to ourselves. Two strangers in a small country place, talking to a child, may attract notice.

  I have no idea if this letter will reach you safely or if it will do so in its entirety, but as usual Schönbrunn has friends within some kind of secret network, and assures me he can get letters to you. For that reason I feel able to write in more detail than I should otherwise dare.

  As always, I send my kind regards and very best wishes. Stay safe, my good friend,

  M.B.

  Oxford

  Spring 1944

  Dear J.W.

  As you see, we have reached Oxford. Travelling is difficult, although not impossible, but the trains seem to take the longest route between two places, and there are all kinds of papers and proofs of identity to be shown along the journey. Schönbrunn, as you will guess, has provided us with all the necessary documents. I have not asked how or where he acquired them – I have not dared! I am just grateful that they are accepted.

  Oxford is a beautiful city, even in the midst of this war, and we have managed to find rooms in a small boarding house which is modest, but clean and comfortable. Somehow Schönbrunn has acquired a motor car – a shocking old rattletrap it is – and also petrol (again, I dare not ask). However, a car will make things much easier, although he is a terrible driver. I clutch the dashboard as we bounce along, while Schönbrunn wrestles with gears and steering, and swears at the other motorists in various languages.

  Sophie and Susannah Reiss were placed with a family in a village just outside a place called Wolvercote. Schönbrunn was involved in the arrangements and knows the way, so we shall drive there tomorrow and call at the house, presenting ourselves as Ministry Officials. Apparently the British are accustomed to people knocking on their doors and asking the most intimate questions. I dare say this is the fault of various War Departments.

  Our questions will be based on food consumption which Schönbrunn thinks will not seem offensive.

  Best regards,

  M.B.

  Oxford

  Spring 1944

  Dear J.W.

  The food consumption ploy has worked perfectly. We did, though, have to knock on the doors of at least half a dozen other houses so as to appear credible, and I am now in possession of a great deal of information regarding potatoes (half the crop suffered something called blight), carrots (a quarter of these were lost to black rot) and Brussels sprouts, which, according to most people, are not liked by anyone, except at Christmas, when you have to eat them on account of it being a tradition. There are, however, hopes for the spring yield of tomatoes and lettuces – providing, that is, the Government doesn’t snaffle the best of the crop. (I am unsure of the precise meaning of this word snaffle, but Schönbrunn says it simply means steal.)

  Sophie and Susannah Reiss lived with a couple called Battersby on the village outskirts. Mrs Battersby, a generously proportioned and garrulous lady, insisted on our coming inside, the better to complete our questionnaire.

  And now I am setting down, to the best of my recollection, an account of the conversation. It began with a well-judged question from Schönbrunn about how many people lived in the house, and this caused Mrs Battersby to open up about the two small girls taken in the previous year.

  ‘Dear girls, they were,’ said Mrs Battersby, dispensing tea (very strong), and slices of seed cake (delicious). ‘And Mr Battersby and I were more than happy to give them homes, not having been blessed with children of our own. But those poor lambs were so bewildered and vulnerable at first it broke my heart.’ Then, to me, ‘I can assure you we were careful about their attendance at school each day – a very good village school we have here.’

  I nodded and made a diligent note.

  ‘Church every Sunday, and Sunday School in the afternoon. Mr Battersby was a bit concerned about that, them being Jewish, but I said they’d find God just as well in a good English church as in a synagogue. You’ll forgive me, Mr— I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, but I realize you aren’t English, and so if that remark is offensive to you, I apologize. I was brought up a good Anglican, you see, and it’s difficult to change.’

  Schönbrunn smiled at her (he is shameless at times), and she blinked, then went on.

  ‘They seemed to settle down so well, although missing their homes dreadfully, of course, but they were such good, well-behaved little mites, we thought they were adjusting. So bright and clever they were, and we noticed a remarkable thing – to teach one of them something was to teach both the same thing.’

  Neither Schönbrunn nor I made any response to this, but we both knew it was this extraordinary vein of telepathy that Mengele’s people had been so greedy for.

  ‘Then,’ said Mrs Battersby, ‘what do they do but up and run away.’

  ‘Run away?’ I said
in surprise, for I had not been expecting this, but before I could say more, Schönbrunn was commenting on what a sad thing that was to hear.

  ‘Well, it’s the only conclusion we could reach,’ said Mrs Battersby. ‘They became ill, you see, that was how it started. Not from any lack of care on my part, I’d like it known.’

  ‘I’m sure not.’

  ‘Meningitis, it was. A dreadful cruel illness, and a real epidemic. Half the children hereabouts caught it. The authorities set up a temporary isolation hospital, and to my mind they didn’t do so badly, given the difficulties.’ Again, this was directed to me, and I nodded.

  ‘We weren’t allowed to visit them,’ said Mrs Battersby, ‘but we were glad to hear that at least they had a friend with them – Leo Rosendale, who came to England with them. He’s living with the Hursts over at Willow Bank Farm – very strict, they are, but I have to say they made everyone very welcome last Christmas – a Boxing Day supper it was, although a pity that Mr Porringer was there. Mr Battersby has no time for Mr Paul Porringer and neither do I, nothing but a jumped-up counter-pusher, he is, for all he likes to boast how his grandfather had his own shop in the days of the old Queen.’

  (‘Old Queen’ clearly refers to Queen Victoria, who is still remembered by elderly people here.)

  ‘But the little girls vanished?’ I managed to say. ‘From the hospital itself?’

  ‘Clean disappeared late one night. The doctors reported it at once, and the police came to tell us, and Mr Battersby went straight along to the police station to help organize a search. Most of the village turned out. Searched all night and all the next day. The police went on for several days – notices at railway stations, photographs in the newspapers, even a piece on the wireless. And they talked to the other children, those who had been in the hospital that night. Leo Rosendale, and one or two of the others. But none of them seemed to know anything, and of course they’d all been so poorly. I don’t mind admitting I was chilled to the marrow to think of those little mites out there, such a bitter cold night it was, straight after Christmas, and them still poorly from that meningitis, even though the doctors said they hadn’t got it very severely.’