The Ordeal of the Haunted Room Page 4

‘And what will you be doing while I’m waiting, all alone in the cold and dark?’

  ‘Eating, drinking, making merry, that sort of thing. I’m sure we’ll be able to accompany Mr Harewood to the room to verify he’s been locked in. If we can’t join you, we’ll return to our rooms while you . . .’

  ‘Will continue to sit in the cold and dark making sure no one attempts to interfere in any way.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Max.’

  ‘You could warm yourself on a couple of housemaids,’ offered Peterson.

  ‘They’re very respectable girls,’ he said, primly. ‘More than adequately chaperoned by Mrs Trent. And besides, have you seen the size of Barnstaple?’

  He began to stack plates and cups back on the tray.

  We chatted for half an hour. I had forgotten how heavily time lay in the Victorian era. Especially for women. Eventually, I got to my feet and said I had better go and make myself presentable for dinner.

  They both nodded, Peterson going so far as to say if I started right now, I might look fairly reasonable by the time they rang the gong.

  Back in my room, another maid awaited me. A short bouncy one, this time. They obviously had some sort of maid manufactory downstairs.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘And you are . . . ?’

  She bobbed a curtsey. ‘Eliza, ma’am. Mrs Harewood sent me to make sure you had everything you needed. She says the house is often cold at night and wondered if you’d like to borrow one of these.’ She gestured towards the bed where three very pretty shawls had been laid out.

  ‘How very kind of Mrs Harewood,’ I said. And because I wanted to keep her on my side, added, ‘Which one would you recommend?’

  ‘I think the blue one, ma’am. To go with your dress. And the fringes are very pretty.’

  ‘The blue one it is, then. Thank you, Eliza.’

  There was a bit of a pause and then she said tactfully, ‘Would you like me to help you with your hair, ma’am?’

  ‘I would indeed. Thank you.’

  The hair thing went very well. She managed it much better than I did, piling it all on top of my head and encouraging a few curls to fall over my ears.

  Of course, she had two hands and wasn’t trying to do it backwards while looking into a mirror. I’d once said to Kalinda Black that I wished I could take my head off and have it on my lap when trying to do my hair and she’d said if she could put her own head in her own lap she wouldn’t waste her time doing her hair. She’s a very bad person. You don’t want to have anything to do with her.

  Eliza expressed some surprise at the length and sharpness of my hairpins.

  ‘A lady should never be unarmed, Eliza.’

  She nodded, twisting up another piece of hair. ‘Indeed, madam, so my granny always said. And I myself always have a hat pin handy.’

  ‘Good for your granny. I hope it worked for her.’

  ‘She had three husbands, madam, so I’m not sure.’

  I laughed. ‘This is a very nice house, Eliza.’

  ‘Oh yes. My mum was ever so pleased when I got a place here. Very well-respected family in these parts, ma’am.’

  She held out the blue shawl and at that moment, the gong sounded.

  Markham and Thomas helped our fallen warrior down the stairs. Actually, Peterson did very well. As he said, the prospect of meeting a vengeful spirit who could strike people dead in a locked room was enough to get anyone back on their feet.

  Mr Harewood was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. He and his wife really were the perfect hosts. Introductions were made and Peterson hobbled slowly – and bravely – into the dining room to meet the other guests.

  He bowed over Mrs Harewood’s hand. ‘I really must apologise for thrusting myself on you in this manner,’ he said.

  She had herself well under control. ‘Not at all, Dr Peterson. We are delighted to have this opportunity to welcome you to Harewood Hall. Such good fortune we were nearby when you had your accident.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Peterson. ‘I am a stranger to this part of the county, ma’am. Have you lived here long?’

  The clock struck the hour as he was seated on her right hand. Everyone paused in the middle of seating themselves and stared. A nice little Victorian tableau. Then the chimes ceased and everything started up again. I was placed with Mr Harewood at the head of the table. Mr Chance and the reverend occupied the middle ground.

  ‘The family has been here for just over two hundred years, I believe,’ she said, answering Peterson’s question. ‘We held for the king in the Civil War and were rewarded with this estate.’

  ‘A pleasant part of the world,’ observed Peterson as the first course was served. Clear soup with a distinct taste of sherry. Quite nice, actually, but the first thing I realised was that it wasn’t actually that long since I’d enjoyed a very substantial tea. On the other hand, everyone else was about to tuck in and I rather felt I had the honour of St Mary’s to uphold, so I tucked in too. I stopped listening and concentrated on not slurping or spilling it down my front.

  Dinner was tense but at least this time no one dropped anything. Possibly in an effort to push back the shadows – both real and imagined – Barnstaple had caused too many candles to be lighted. The wind outside was strong, the heavy curtains moved constantly and the draught caused the flames to flicker. To me, every face took on a gargoyle-ish quality.

  Barnstaple and John waited on us, which rather limited the topics of conversation. We ran through the normal stuff – the weather, the harvest this year, the forthcoming Boxing Day meet at the Royal Oak, the doings of the dear queen, the vicar’s Christmas Day sermon. They gossiped a little over their neighbours, although only very discreetly in the face of Mr Lillywhite’s disapproving silence. I wondered if there was anything of which the Reverend Lillywhite did approve. Apart from a free dinner, of course.

  ‘A doctor?’ said Mr Chance to Peterson, as the plates were cleared. ‘Are you a medical man, perhaps?’

  ‘Historian,’ said Peterson as his dish was taken away.

  ‘Hence his inability to remain on his own feet,’ I said and everyone laughed very cheerfully.

  The clock struck the quarter hour as the fish was served. I had no idea what it was. The fish, I mean. Not salmon and not prawns – that’s all I can say. Freshly fried in butter and served with a creamy sauce. Rather tasty, though.

  ‘Just outside of Rushford,’ I said in reply to Mr Chance’s query as to exactly where I hailed from. I suspected he was by no means as amiable and good-natured as he appeared. Those dark eyes were very shrewd. ‘St Mary’s Priory. Do you know it at all, sir?’

  ‘I have never visited that part of the county,’ he said which was a relief because I’d been half expecting him to do the ‘Oh, do you know so-and-so?’ trick and I never know whether to say yes or no.

  ‘Although,’ he continued, ‘I believe there are some very interesting Roman remains near Rushford.’

  Everyone stiffened in case mentioning the Romans set the reverend’s pagan phobia off again, but fortunately he was immersed in his fish.

  Chance also could eat and talk at the same time. He should apply to St Mary’s. Although I had to say there would be Fat Chance of that.

  Did you see what I did there? Told you the universe should have killed me when it had the Chance. Behave yourself, Maxwell. And possibly drink less wine.

  Reverend Lillywhite’s appetite was impressive. How anyone could remain that skeletal with what he put away was a mystery. As far as I was aware there was no Mrs Lillywhite – unsurprising – so he might only ever eat when he visited his parishioners. Personally, I’d have locked the doors, turned out the lights and pretended to be out. Or converted to another belief system. I watched his little hands scuttle across the table. Like white spiders.

  Dinner was very leisurely. N
othing was rushed. I wondered if everyone was as conscious of time ticking away as I was. The half hour sounded. This time, no one looked at the clock.

  The entrée followed. I was beginning to flag but Peterson’s appetite appeared unimpaired so – challenge accepted. Roast beef, stewed mutton and a capon were all served, each with numerous side dishes. I spared a thought for Markham, concealed out there in the hall somewhere, clutching a stale crust as he watched all these dishes go by. Although, knowing him, his harem of adoring housemaids would have ensured he was adequately nourished before he set out.

  I had made up my mind to decline the dessert – I was well and truly stuffed and I thought such restraint would make me look elegant – but they wheeled in a raspberry cream and several cheesecakes and my resolve crumbled. I did lay off the wine, though. I was going to have enough difficulty staying awake as it was. Mr Harewood partook fairly freely, however, and I really couldn’t blame him. The handsome marble clock on the mantel was chiming the quarter hours with frightening regularity and every time it did so the conversation would die away to pick up again moments later. The hour of the Ordeal was approaching.

  At last, Mrs Harewood smiled at me and we ladies withdrew to let the men get on with their carousing. Barnstaple was just wheeling in the most massive cheeseboard I’d ever seen in my life – and they’d be passing the port around as well. I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep for a week or so. I was convinced I’d never need to eat again. No wonder they all wore corsets.

  Mrs Harewood paused in the hall. An icy draught swirled around my ankles. I shivered. She was right, the house was chilly. I pulled my shawl around me.

  ‘There will be a good fire in the sitting room,’ she said. ‘Do go in. I shall just check on Baby Jamie and then I will join you.’

  ‘May I come too? He’s such a lovely little boy.’

  I think she was grateful not to have to go alone and I wanted a better idea of the layout of the house, so we set off up the stairs which were wide and shallow with an intricately carved balustrade curving up the wall. But it was so cold. Even the heavy chandelier swung gently, making the shadows dance. I felt the atmosphere thickening around me. I shivered again and concentrated on the peacock-blue-and-gold carpet. There was hard, bright colour everywhere in this house.

  Mrs Harewood carried a lamp, even though the landings were well lit. Our footsteps were silent on the thick runner but more than once I stopped to look behind me . . .

  The nursery was on the top floor. At some time during its history, a number of tiny attic rooms had been knocked into one and the sloping roofs made it cosy. Nanny was still crocheting by the fire and Baby Jamie was fast asleep in his crib, his little fists clenched over his head. The wet nurse/nursery maid – Annie – was working her way through a pile of darning. Both got to their feet, curtseyed, and then sat back down again. There was a cheerful fire, plenty of coal in the scuttle and a good supply of candles. Thankfully, in this little haven of light, warmth and security, no clock ticked the moments away. All was peaceful.

  ‘Everything is under control, madam,’ said Nanny in her comfortable voice. ‘We’ll ring if we need anything – although we won’t – and Thomas says he will come at once.’

  ‘You are not to leave Jamie.’

  I had the impression it wasn’t the first time she’d said that today but Nanny nodded imperturbably. ‘Not even for a second, madam.’

  ‘And don’t let anyone in. Not before dawn, anyway.’

  ‘No, madam.’

  Mrs Harewood peered into the crib for final reassurance. The light from a nearby lamp illuminated her features. Anxiety was etching deep lines across her young face.

  ‘Thank you, Nanny. Lock the door behind us.’

  ‘I shall, madam. Good night.’

  I was quite sorry to leave the warmth and security of the nursery and I was certain Mrs Harewood would be as well. I suspected only her duty to her husband was keeping her from spending the night with her child.

  The tall grandfather clock in the hall was just striking ten as we came down the stairs.

  Downstairs the servants were preparing for the Ordeal. Maids rustled past, building up the fires and lighting lamps in every room. Branches of candles and oil lamps stood everywhere. Every nook and cranny was to be ruthlessly illuminated. Pairs of servants would be stationed on every floor. Every door, every window was locked. There would be no hiding place anywhere in this house tonight. Unless, of course, something was already inside the house, in which case, I couldn’t help thinking, we’d locked it in with us.

  Outside, the wind howled and rain lashed the windows. It was a dark and stormy night . . . But to be honest, I didn’t think anything would happen. I honestly thought that Mr Harewood senior’s death was just a blip. That he had succumbed to something that the medical profession of the time had been unable to identify and the fact that he had died on the night of the Ordeal was just unfortunate. Or perhaps he had somehow managed to commit suicide in some unknown manner and arranged for his body to be found in the Haunted Room to spare his family the shame and scandal. Suicide was still illegal in this time. Anyone failing in their attempt could look forward to a spell in prison.

  This family wasn’t fabulously wealthy – not by fabulously wealthy standards – but now I knew what I was looking for, there were signs of . . . not poverty, but careful expenditure everywhere. Some carpets were a little threadbare in places. The linen had been carefully darned. There would be money made available if they could prove it was for the benefit of the estate but nothing for their own personal use. I wondered if perhaps they were living off Mrs Harewood’s dowry. On the other hand, the servants easily outnumbered the family, and threadbare or not, their house was comfortable, and they were obviously getting by. Given what had happened to Mr Harewood’s father, why would they put themselves through all this? In the end, I came straight out with it and asked Mrs Harewood, who hesitated.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘That was very impolite of me.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think if it was just us, then perhaps we might not choose to undertake the Ordeal. Our personal needs are very simple. But Jamie’s future is at stake. And remember, until recently, the Ordeal had been just a quaint little family ceremony. A ghost story to be told around the fire at Christmas. Chilling at the time and then the lights go up and it’s quickly forgotten as we send round the rum punch. But for Jamie’s sake – he must come into his inheritance when the time comes.’ She smiled at me. ‘Every parent wants to give their child the best they can, don’t they?’

  Not always, in my experience, but I smiled and nodded because there were enough storm clouds building on her horizon without me telling her that there was a very good chance young Jamie might not survive long enough to undertake the Ordeal anyway. I worked it out in my head. He’d be nineteen in 1914. And if Henry was still around, then he’d be in his mid-forties. I couldn’t remember the upper age limit for being called up. If Baby Jamie didn’t make it through World War I then this might be the last ever Ordeal of the Haunted Room.

  I blinked and returned to 1895. Back to Mrs Harewood. The clock was just striking half past ten. Not long now.

  ‘Are you able to tell me about the last time? Mr Harewood’s father? Obviously, you weren’t present then.’

  ‘No. Henry was, of course. And the reverend, Mr Lillywhite. It’s part of the conditions that two independent witnesses attend the Ordeal so Mr Chance was here, too. He’s been our man of business for years. And his father before him.’

  ‘So everyone here will know what to expect?’

  ‘They will. And here they come now. And Barnstaple with the tea.’

  Oh, dear God – more food and drink.

  Everyone served themselves this time. Leaving the men gathered around the fire and talking shooting, Mrs Harewood and I retreated to the other end of the room.

  ‘Do you f
eel able to tell me exactly what will happen? How does this work?’

  ‘Well,’ she said nervously, beginning to fiddle with her shawl again. ‘The only way in and out of the room is through the door. The windows were nailed shut years and years ago. The door is solid and there are three locks. Henry has one key. Mr Chance has one and Mr Lillywhite has the third. All three must be used together in order to gain access.’

  I wondered if that was the key on Chance’s watch chain.

  She swallowed. ‘Once inside – and I dread to think what sort of state the room will be in because no one can ever enter it – we’ll make him as comfortable as we can. Barnstaple will set a fire and light the candles and then, on the stroke of midnight, we . . . lock him in and leave him there.’

  Her voice trembled. The clock struck a quarter to eleven and I tried to distract her. ‘How will he pass the time?’

  She tried to smile. ‘Well, he will have his books so it’s perfectly possible he won’t even notice where he is. And a decanter, and Mrs Trent will send something up for him to eat, and so, apart from the dust and dirt, for him, it may not be so different from a normal evening.’

  ‘Doesn’t it worry you, having a locked room in the house?’

  ‘To be honest, Mrs Farrell, until my father-in-law’s death, I rarely thought about it. Now . . .’ She sighed and stared into the fire.

  I didn’t want to, but politeness compelled me to say, ‘Mrs Harewood, it occurs to me this is a family matter and we are intruding. Would you prefer us to go to our rooms and leave you in peace? At least it would relieve you of your obligation to entertain your guests.’

  She seized my wrist. ‘Oh no. Please, I will admit I was a little vexed that today of all days you should . . . but since Mr Chance and the reverend were here anyway, I now find I am very grateful for your company. It is so pleasant to meet some people whose lives are not overshadowed by this . . . ritual.’

  ‘Will you wait up all night?’

  ‘Well, I shan’t sleep of course – not once Henry enters that room – but I shall retire to my chamber . . .’ I suspected she didn’t want to have to entertain Chance and Lillywhite through the long night and I didn’t blame her in the slightest, ‘and then, I suppose, we just . . . wait.’