by Jodi Taylor
Copyright © 2020 Jodi Taylor
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
1
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be
reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior
permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in
accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 7658 2
Cover design and illustration by zoedrawsthings.co.uk
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Contents
Title
Copyright
About the Author
Also By
About the Book
Dedication
Dramatis Thingummy
The Ordeal of the Haunted Room
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Discover more by Jodi Taylor . . .
About the Author
Jodi Taylor is the internationally bestselling author of the Chronicles of St Mary’s series, the story of a bunch of disaster prone individuals who investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do NOT call it time travel! She is also the author of the Time Police series – a St Mary’s spinoff and gateway into the world of an all-powerful, international organisation who are NOTHING like St Mary’s. Except, when they are.
Alongside these, Jodi is known for her gripping supernatural thrillers featuring Elizabeth Cage, together with the enchanting Frogmorton Farm series – a fairy story for adults.
Born in Bristol and now living in Gloucester (facts both cities vigorously deny), she spent many years with her head somewhere else, much to the dismay of family, teachers and employers, before finally deciding to put all that daydreaming to good use and write a novel. Nearly twenty books later, she still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.
By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline
time police series
doing time
hard time
The Chronicles of St Mary’s series
Just One Damned Thing After Another
A Symphony of Echoes
A Second Chance
A Trail Through Time
No Time Like the Past
What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Lies, Damned Lies, and History
And the Rest is History
An Argumentation of Historians
Hope for the Best
plan for the worst
short story collections
The Long and Short of It
Long story Short
The Chronicles of St Mary’s digital shorts
When a Child is Born
Roman Holiday
Christmas Present
Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings
THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING
The Great St Mary’s Day Out
My Name is Markham
A Perfect Storm
Christmas Past
Battersea Barricades
The Steam-Pump Jump
And Now For Something Completely Different
WHEN DID YOU LAST SEE YOUR FATHER?
Why is Nothing Ever Simple?
The Ordeal of the Haunted Room
Elizabeth Cage novels
White Silence
Dark Light
Frogmorton Farm Series
The Nothing Girl
The Something Girl
Little Donkey (digital short)
Joy to the World (digital short)
––––––––––––––
A Bachelor Establishment
About the Book
Where better for the annual festive jump than the chance to experience a real Victorian Christmas?
On the longest night of 1895, a terrible storm rages above Harewood Hall. Max, Markham and an injured Peterson are welcomed in by the Harewood family, but soon realise that, in true St Mary’s style, they couldn’t have arrived at a better moment. For tonight marks the Ordeal of the Haunted Room. Dum . . . dum . . . dum . . .
Every Harewood heir must endure one terrifying night alone in the Haunted Room before he can inherit the family seat. Legend says that a ghost will murder anyone who isn’t the true successor.
Henry Harewood’s ordeal will begin at midnight and end at dawn, but it isn’t long before everything goes horribly wrong . . .
This book is for Phil and Julia, at whose table I wrote most of this story.
Dramatis Thingummy
St Mary’s Personnel
Mrs Farrell
Whose innocent but unfortunate comment regarding imminent meteorological conditions turns out to be a Good Thing.
Dr Peterson
An idiot whose inability to remain on his own two feet turns out to be another Good Thing.
Markham
A reluctant gentleman’s gentleman whose encyclopaedic knowledge on how to murder someone and leave no trace turns out to be yet another Good Thing.
Dr Bairstow
Director of St Mary’s. A man who has learned not to enquire too closely.
Occupants of Harewood Hall
Mr Henry Harewood
Owner of Harewood Hall. About to undergo the Ordeal of the Haunted Room. Dum . . . dum . . . dum.
Mrs Letitia Harewood
His wife. Steadfast and sensible.
Baby Jamie
His son. Doesn’t do a lot. Obviously . . .
Barnstaple
A substantially built butler, perpetually outnumbered by housemaids and who has learned to react accordingly.
Mrs Trent
Ointment-laden housekeeper.
John Thomas
Footmen. Useful for heaving an injured Peterson around.
Eliza, Margaret, Millie, Mary, Jane
Housemaids. Founder members of the Mr Markham Appreciation Society. Otherwise, quite sensible girls.
Mr Chance
The second Chance of Chance, Venture, Chance and Spigot – family solicitors.
The Reverend Lillywhite
Tall, grey, probably not a zombie. A pillar of the church. Which isn’t half as exciting as being a zombie.
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The Winter Solstice, 1985. The longest night of the year. The night when anything can happen . . .
Apparently, the whole thing was my fault. I said I thought it was going to snow, Markham and Peterson obediently looked up at the murky sky and Peterson went arse over tit and hurt his foot. How any of that can be laid at my door was a mystery to me and Markham and I held a spirited discussion over just that point until we couldn’t hear ourselves any longer for Peterson’s ridiculously melodramatic moaning.
‘My foot, my foot,’ he whimpered.
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ said Markham. ‘Let’s have a look.’
‘Should I get my boot off?’
‘Not unless you want your foot to fall off,’ I said, which, while an interesting and unusual sight, would not be conducive to the successful accomplishment of our assignment.
Peterson’s suggestion as to where I could put my assignment – successfully completed or otherwise – was not deemed particularly helpful.
‘Now what do we do?’ said Markham. ‘It’s miles back to the pod and I don’t think Hopalong here will make it.’
‘I can see roofs through the trees over there,’ I said. ‘A house or a farm perhaps. I’m sure someone will take us in.’
We heaved Peterson to his feet – well, foot, anyway – and off we set, arguing over whose fault everything was which helped to pass the time.
It wasn’t a farm. We passed through a pair of very impressive wrought-iron gates – unlocked, fortunately. There was a crest on the stone pillars, worn almost smooth with age. Markham closed the gates neatly behind us and we strode and hopped our way up the carriage sweep to the posh house at the end of it.
Typically, its rather charming Jacobean exterior had been almost completely overwhelmed by Victorian Gothic turrets and battlements. There was no moat but dungeons seemed a good bet. Nor did any bats hover menacingly over the bell tower, but I couldn’t help feeling it was only a matter of time.
Not all was gloom and doom, though. No matter how much the house looked like the setting from one of those children’s programmes where pesky kids and their dog thwart the wicked ghosts, warm golden lights shone at several windows so someone was in. Which was just as well because the wind was beginning to get up and there was sleet in it. We were in for some wild weather.
I left Markham supporting our wounded soldier and climbed the steps to ply the knocker with some vigour. Three sonorous booms echoed around the house.
‘Bloody hell, Max,’ said Markham. ‘You made it sound like the last trump. They’ll never open the door now.’
It seemed he was right. Time ticked on and no one came. I looked around. The afternoon was darkening and black branches tossed wildly to and fro. This was no time for innocent historians to be abroad. Or us, either.
I was all set to give it another go, but eventually, slowly, the door opened. Narrative tradition demands a sinister butler – with or without a hump – a creaking door, a gloomy hall, cobwebs and somewhere in the darkness, a woman sobbing quietly.
What we actually saw was a stout, mutton-chopped butler, the epitome of respectability, and behind him, a welcoming, well-lit hall. I actually felt a pang of regret. A ghost story would have been nice for Christmas. As Peterson said afterwards, I never learn, do I?
For a moment we all looked at each other and then the butler stepped back, solemnly bidding us welcome.
Fortunately, his employer was considerably less formidable. A tall young woman emerged from a door to the right, asking, ‘Who is it, Barnstable?’
She was sensibly dressed in morning wear – a tailored blouse, high at the neck, tucked into a bell-shaped skirt, fitted over the hips. Her dark hair was dressed high on her head with soft curls at the front. Pretty, practical and fashionable.
‘I am endeavouring to ascertain that fact, madam,’ he said forbiddingly, never taking his eyes off us. The rain began to come down in earnest.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said politely. ‘I am so sorry to make claims on your hospitality but my . . . brother has suffered a fall and hurt his foot.’
Thus reminded of his injury, Peterson smiled wanly.
‘Goodness gracious,’ she said, and I made a mental note to dial back my normal bad language before it got me into trouble. ‘You must come in. Barnstaple . . .’ She gestured to us.
Barnstaple unbent sufficiently to assist Peterson in through the door and settle him in a chair. Within seconds he was surrounded by a bevy of housemaids. Much in the same way that carnivores gather around a stricken antelope. I think there were a couple of footmen in there, as well. While everyone fussed around Peterson – you could see him loving every moment of it – I stepped back and took a quick look around.
We were standing in a large hall, traditionally decorated for its time with gloomy pictures, fussy curtains, and branches of candles everywhere. The colour scheme was dark and sombre. Mysterious shadows jumped in the flickering candlelight although I was inclined to think that was more due to the gale force draughts rather than anything sinister.
Heavy doors opened off this space and the one from which the woman had emerged offered a glimpse of a comfortably furnished sitting room. Interestingly, though, there were no Christmas decorations. Not anywhere. We were only a few days before Christmas. Victorians were usually not subtle when it came to interior decoration so there should be at least one Christmas tree – now very fashionable after its original introduction by Queen Charlotte in 1800 – together with greenery and garlands and ribbons draped over every available surface.
I turned to face our hostess. The mistress of the house, I assumed.
‘I am so sorry to have troubled you. I am Mrs Farrell and this is my brother, Dr Peterson, who is, I am sorry to say, incapable of not falling over his own feet. And his man, Markham.’
She smiled politely, glancing at the rain now hammering against the windows. ‘It is certainly no afternoon to be outside and I can assure you it is no trouble.’
Well, it wouldn’t be for her. She’d have twelve thousand servants downstairs all ready to fulfil her slightest whim. On the other hand, underneath her kind face, her air was distracted and tense. It couldn’t be us, surely. We’d only been in the house two minutes.
‘My name is Letitia Harewood. This is my husband’s house. You are very welcome although you will find us a little distracted at the moment. I think the best thing is to look at Dr Peterson’s foot while we can still take his boot off. Perhaps we should cut the laces. Oh, well done, Barnstaple. You think of everything.’
Obviously actually cutting the laces was beneath Barnstaple’s dignity – his responsibility ended with producing the appropriate implement. A footman cut the laces and gently eased off Peterson’s boot and sock and everyone peered at the affected body part.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, remembering my role as a member of the weaker sex, barely able to endure the rigours of life without a man to advise me. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure sisters have been giving their brothers a hard time since the world began. ‘That looks quite painful.’
‘It is,’ he said, with gritted teeth. Peterson doesn’t bear pain well. You should have heard the carry-on when he was unwell in the 14th century. You’d think no one had ever had bubonic plague before.
There was no getting away from it though, that foot was not looking good. I didn’t need field medic qualifications to know feet should not be big, bruised and spherical. Fleshy and oblong is the accepted way to go. With discernible toes.
Several people drew back with exclamations of consternation. Given this was the Victorian age, I half expected a few of them to go off in a swoon. Admittedly one of the footmen turned a little green but none of the housemaids turned a hair. It was Peterson who uttered a pitiful groan, clearly indicating he’d given up the unequal struggle for life and metaphorically turned his face to the wall.
‘I’m su
re you’ll be far more comfortable upstairs,’ said Mrs Harewood and Peterson nodded his heartfelt agreement. A housemaid was despatched to light a fire. Another went for hot water and towels. Two footmen were delegated to convey the stricken Peterson upstairs.
‘Where is his man?’ enquired Mrs Harewood, looking around. There was a momentary pause. Under the cover of my skirts I kicked Markham’s ankle.
‘I am here, madam,’ he said, with dignity. ‘Ready to accompany you.’
We set off – Barnstaple regally in the lead, setting the pace. The two footmen – John and Thomas, I think – carried Peterson, followed by Mrs Harewood and me, and finally, bringing up the rear was Markham, that gentleman’s gentleman par excellence, still indignant over the assault to his ankle and limping slightly and unnecessarily.
She enquired if we’d come far.
‘Just outside of Rushford,’ I replied, concentrating on getting up the stairs without standing on my skirt or showing too much ankle. ‘St Mary’s Priory.’
She nodded. I could tell she’d never heard of it.
For those accustomed to the spartan conditions prevailing at St Mary’s – and I see I’ve done my usual thing and gone galloping off into the story without giving anyone a clue as to who we are – start again, Maxwell – we belong to the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, where we investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do not call it time-travel. Well, you could, obviously, but not unless you wanted to incur the bone-chilling wrath of Dr Bairstow and have more than a fat foot to worry about.
Anyway, the reason we were dancing around on a bleak, cold December afternoon was that we’d jumped back to investigate a Victorian Christmas. Which I suspected would be much the same as everyone else’s Christmas except for seventeen-course meals, miserly old curmudgeons undergoing profound personality changes, and the obligatory Christmas ghost.
