The Ordeal of the Haunted Room

by Jodi Taylor

  We’d jumped back to a small town in Rushfordshire 1895, landing just behind the local pub, the Royal Oak – although as far as I knew the Royal Oak wasn’t anywhere near us. You know the one – where the future Charles II hid in an oak tree after his father’s forces lost the Battle of Worcester. Anyway, we’d left the pod and blithely set off into the afternoon to see what the locals were making of the festive season. Not one hour up the road Peterson had tripped over his own feet and here we were.

  Where was I? Yes – arriving at Peterson’s room, which was a bit on the sumptuous side. The décor was very masculine – a kind of crimson tartan fabric for curtains, bedspread and cushions. A bright fire was already crackling away as the housemaid, Jane, plied the bellows in an apparent attempt to burn the house down.

  Another maid was setting a pitcher of hot water on top of the dresser. Markham entered, reverently bearing Peterson’s boot as if it was a holy relic and completely failing to take the whole thing seriously.

  ‘We’ll leave you in peace,’ said Mrs Harewood. ‘Mrs Farrell, will you allow me to show you to your own room? This way.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘I cannot believe, so close to Christmas, that the sudden arrival of two unexpected guests –’ Markham wouldn’t count – ‘is anything other than a massive inconvenience.’

  ‘I assure you it is not. My husband likes me to run a very hospitable house, and if I say that we are currently entertaining my husband’s solicitor and the vicar, I’m sure you will understand why the addition of unexpected guests is no imposition at all.’ Her eyes met mine for just a moment. The long-suffering hostess entertaining her husband’s less than lively guests. ‘And this is your room.’

  The door stood open. Housemaids had invaded here, too. This room was decorated in much lighter tones than Peterson’s – a soft blue and white. I had a big, deep bed, two bedside tables, a massive Narnia wardrobe in which I had nothing to put, two comfy-looking armchairs in front of another bright fire, and a chest of drawers that was taller than I was – although that’s not difficult. A blizzard of small tables had fallen on the room at some point, all of them occupied by thousands of really quite ugly ornaments and baubles. A handsome silver clock ticked on the mantel and three or four fringed rugs had been cast over an already thick carpet. The curtains were drawn and the whole effect was comfortable and welcoming. I looked around. ‘This is delightful, Mrs Harewood. Thank you so very much.’

  ‘You are most welcome, Mrs Farrell. I shall leave you to make yourself comfortable. Please ring if you need anything. No doubt you will want to assure yourself of your brother’s comfort . . .’ Her tone conveyed her misgivings over her guest’s brother’s manservant but that wasn’t my problem so I ignored it. ‘And when you are ready, I shall be delighted if you would join me for Tea.’

  Well, that sounded good.

  I took off my hat, tossed it and my gloves on to a chair and unfastened my heavy coat. Mrs Enderby had made it especially for me and it was rather a nice one, actually, dark red, three-quarters length with fashionable leg of mutton sleeves and a fake fur collar. She’d given it a slightly military look with frog fasteners down the front. Underneath I was wearing a close-fitting navy jacket, a high-necked blouse and the fashionable bell-shaped skirt, all similar to the outfit worn by Mrs Harewood. I washed my face and hands in pleasantly warm water, only now realising how cold I’d become, tidied my hair and made my way to Peterson’s room.

  Markham let me in. The invalid was reclining on a mound of pillows, his foot on a cushion with a cold compress laid over. He looked extremely comfortable.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I was about to send my man down for some tea.’

  I’ve no idea how his man would have responded to that because at that moment Mrs Trent, the housekeeper, a most respectable lady in plain black, knocked at the door with some ointment ‘for the poor doctor’s foot’.

  The poor doctor accepted this most graciously and demanded tea. Markham scowled at us both impartially and followed her down to the servants’ quarters.

  I seated myself in an armchair by the fire to dispense sympathy. ‘You are an idiot.’

  ‘It’s swelling like mad,’ Peterson said gloomily. ‘Do you think I’ve broken something?’

  ‘That or a bad sprain, which is just as serious.’

  ‘Yes, we could have a problem, couldn’t we? They’ll offer to send down to the inn for our luggage and there won’t be any. Nor any visible means of conveyance. In fact, no one there will know anything about us and at this point the Harewoods will begin to wonder who we are and where we came from. I’m going to have to be well enough to leave tomorrow morning whether I am or not.’

  ‘Let’s get some of this ointment on it,’ I said, unscrewing the lid and giving it a sniff. ‘Perhaps it will help.’

  ‘Or perhaps my foot will fall off.’

  ‘Thus neatly solving all our problems,’ I said. ‘We can pick it up and return to St Mary’s.’

  The ointment had a minty smell. ‘That’s nice,’ he said as I smoothed it on. ‘Cool. I can feel it doing me good. Put some more on.’

  In Peterson’s world, more is definitely more. I slathered it on as instructed and was just finishing when Markham returned with a housemaid we hadn’t met yet and some tea. I suspected Peterson was the most exciting thing that had happened to them for a long time – I was wrong but I’ll get to that – and they were all taking it in turns to come up and have a look at him.

  No sooner had she left, however – all flustered because Peterson had smiled and thanked her – than Markham threw himself on to the bed, reclining in a very unservantlike manner. ‘You’ll never guess what,’ he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Pour the tea, Max.’

  I poured them each a cup of tea and returned to the fire with my own cup. ‘What won’t we guess?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, wriggling to get himself comfortable and ignoring Peterson’s protests that this was his bed and Markham would have his own straw mattress and half a blanket in an outhouse somewhere. ‘While you two were lounging away above stairs, I was in the Servants’ Hall getting the low-down on tonight’s exciting events. We’ve really fallen on our feet for this one, Max, although not Peterson, of course – he fell on his arse.’

  ‘I did no such thing,’ he said indignantly, sitting up and preparing to argue the point.

  ‘Never mind that,’ I said impatiently. ‘What won’t we guess?’

  Markham leaned back with his tea. ‘I shall tell you a story.’

  Peterson groaned, but I told him he had nowhere better to be, and commanded Markham to get on with it.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t believe it to begin with – it’s like something out of the pages of a Gothic novel.’

  ‘Well, so are we sometimes,’ said Peterson. ‘I really don’t feel we’re in any position to criticise other people over the lack of realism in their lives.’

  ‘What’s out of the pages of a Gothic novel?’ I said impatiently, because someone has to keep the two of them on track.

  Markham grinned wickedly. He looked like a disreputable angel. ‘Listen now to the story of . . . The Haunted Room. Dum . . . dum . . . dum . . .’

  We stared at him.

  ‘No,’ said Peterson. ‘I don’t believe it. An actual Haunted Room?’

  ‘Yes, an actual Haunted Room. Listen, the legend is that, ages ago, one of the Harewoods was the wrong one. The real heir to the Hall wasn’t around – he was out conquering the world or something. His father died and, scenting an opportunity, a younger son turned up and claimed the lot – house, lands, money, everything. Anyway, he was doing very nicely, thank you, and then, seven years later, the real heir returned from whatever part of the world he’d been subjugating and, naturally, there was hell to pay. The imposter was imprisoned in a room here somewhere while they decided what to do with hi
m, but when they unlocked the door the next morning, apparently he’d been unable to face the consequences and done away with himself.’

  ‘So far so normal,’ said Peterson, stifling a yawn. ‘Probably happened all the time with heirs off discovering diamond mines and circumnavigating the world and dying unrecorded and unknown and people taking their place and getting away with it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Markham, refusing to be diverted from his thrilling tale. ‘The details are a bit hazy. I got them from Millie, who was so excited she could hardly speak, but . . .’

  Peterson frowned. ‘Who’s Millie?’

  ‘The parlourmaid.’

  ‘Is that the same as a housemaid?’

  ‘Good heavens, no – don’t even suggest such a thing. Can I continue?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘Well, ever since then, before the heir can inherit Harewood Hall, on the night of the Winter Solstice, he has to spend the night in the Haunted Room . . .’

  ‘Dum . . . dum . . . dum,’ we chorused.

  I enquired as to why.

  ‘To prove that he’s the rightful heir.’

  ‘No, I mean why the night of the Winter Solstice?’

  ‘Dunno. Because it’s the longest night, perhaps, so the ghost of the imposter heir has more time to haunt him?’

  ‘Couldn’t he just show his birth certificate or something?’ enquired Peterson.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps they hadn’t been invented when this quaint legend was born.’

  ‘What happens if he’s not the heir?’

  ‘Then the unquiet spirit of the original imposter will take its revenge and he’ll be found as dead as a doornail.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Peterson. ‘Wish we’d had legends like that in my family.’

  ‘Fun fact,’ said Markham, completely oblivious to the lack of enthusiasm usually engendered by his misnamed fun facts.

  ‘Damn,’ said Peterson to me. ‘I thought we’d got away with it this time out.’

  ‘Fun fact,’ pursued Markham, as unstoppable as an historian on her way to lunch. ‘The phrase dead as a doornail was first used in the 16th century by our old friend William Shakespeare. And again in 1843 by Charles Dickens. Derived from clenching doornails.’

  ‘Can’t help feeling that’s a rather inappropriate use of the word “clenching”,’ muttered Peterson. ‘Not given the current state of my buttocks after hearing that particular legend.’

  ‘No,’ protested Markham. ‘It’s really interesting. You’re hammering the nails into your door –’ he mimed hammering a nail the size of a telegraph pole into a door the size of a cathedral – ‘and you bend the nails over as you hammer them in, which makes them almost impossible to remove and use again. They’re dead. Hence dead as a doornail.’

  We ignored him. Harsh, but it’s the only way.

  ‘So at the stroke of midnight, Henry Harewood will be taken to the Haunted Room . . .’ said Markham.

  ‘Dum . . . dum . . . dum . . .’ added Peterson. I began to wonder if Mrs Harewood’s excellent servants were putting something in the tea.

  ‘I’ve often asked myself – why does no one ever do anything on the stroke of twenty-five to nine?’ demanded Peterson, whom I suspected of slowly being overcome by ointment fumes.

  Markham continued. ‘Anyway, once inside, he’s locked in and there he has to stay, completely alone, until cock-crow or dawn or something dramatic like that, and then they unlock the door and let him out. If he’s still alive. And sane, of course. That’s why the reverend and the solicitor are here. They have to be present in the house during the Ordeal to prove Mr Harewood’s actually done it. Then he can collect the family fortune and everyone lives happily ever after. Except . . .’ He stopped.

  Peterson held out his cup to me for more tea. ‘Except what . . . ?’

  ‘The last incumbent – the present Mr Harewood’s father – died. On this night. The Winter Solstice. Last year. While he was actually undergoing the Ordeal of the Haunted Room.’

  No one said dum . . . dum . . . dum . . . this time.

  ‘Found dead in his chair by the fire.’

  ‘Torn to pieces by a vengeful spirit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘No, barely a mark on him. A small but deep cut on his forearm that his wife swore hadn’t been there when he went in.’

  ‘And that killed him?’

  ‘No – they never found out what killed him. I’m not sure how sophisticated autopsies were then. Fun fact . . .’

  Peterson scowled at him. ‘You weren’t by any chance present when Mr Harewood senior croaked, were you? Only if you were around then, the suicide theory becomes so much more viable.’

  ‘An autopsy carried out on Julius Caesar was able to determine that although he was stabbed multiple times,’ I said, absently, ‘it was the second blow that killed him.’

  Complete silence greeted this interesting remark.

  ‘Hold on,’ I said, trying to get the chronology straight in my head. ‘Mr Harewood’s father must have been quite old when he undertook the Ordeal.’

  ‘Early fifties, I believe. His father, William, Henry’s grandad, was in his seventies when he died.’

  ‘And William survived the Ordeal?’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously.’

  ‘So what was wrong with Henry’s dad, then?

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘And he died actually during the Ordeal . . . ?’

  ‘Leaving his son, Henry. The rules say he has to undergo the Ordeal tonight if he is to inherit.’

  ‘Knowing it killed his father.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they never found out what killed Mr Harewood senior?’

  ‘Well, it was the ghost, obviously, Max. There are about seventy-one housemaids below stairs who will tell you that.’

  ‘But . . .’ I said, bewildered. ‘Surely he didn’t die from a cut arm?’

  ‘No – interestingly, the cut appeared to have been self-inflicted. Although from the blood on his fingers, they thought he might have tried to staunch the bleeding afterwards.’

  ‘Had he tried to kill himself?’

  ‘Not unless he’d tried to slash his elbows instead of his wrists. The wound was in completely the wrong place. He was just dead.

  ‘Anyway, Henry’ll be locked in the room at midnight tonight and if he doesn’t survive the night then the little chap upstairs – that’s Baby Jamie, just under a year old – steps up – figuratively speaking – and twenty-one years later, when he’s of age, they’ll be doing it all again.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said, topping up my own tea.

  ‘Although,’ he continued, ‘to be fair, up until Mr Harewood senior’s unfortunate demise, the Ordeal of the Haunted Room had just been a formality. A charming family legend they trotted out at Christmas as the traditional family ghost story. Now, after what happened to Henry’s dad, everyone’s wetting themselves but being very British about it.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Peterson. ‘What’s been happening to the estate since Henry’s dad’s death?’

  ‘Kept in trust until the heir is confirmed.’

  ‘They don’t seem to be doing too badly,’ I observed.

  ‘Well, according to Jane and Eliza . . .’

  ‘Who?’ said Peterson.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I said wearily. ‘Or he’ll be regaling us with details of his new-found friends all afternoon.’

  ‘According to Jane and Eliza, while the estate isn’t on its uppers, there’s not a lot of money. Only enough for essential estate management and household expenses. Everyone’s very upset about it. They’re down to less than twenty servants and only seven outside staff. There are grave doubts over whether they’ll be able to entertain us in the appropriate manner.’

  ‘W
e can hire you out,’ said Peterson to Markham. ‘You can pay our way.’

  I sighed. ‘We do pick our moments, don’t we?’

  ‘It’s a gift,’ said Markham. ‘Few have it.’ He looked at Peterson. ‘And to think I might have called you a clumsy baboon with all the coordination of a camel on a bike.’

  ‘You did call me a clumsy . . .’

  ‘Well,’ I said, before the discussion could become too enthusiastic, ‘we’ve got to try and hang around for this. Tim, your foot is far too painful to stand on.’

  ‘It is too painful to stand on. I don’t think either of you have quite grasped the full extent of my . . .’

  Someone tapped on the door. Markham leaped from the bed and became a proper servant again, straightening the young master’s bedcovers with the appropriate reverence. For which Peterson would pay later.

  Jane was back for the tea tray. Markham carried it down for her and she obviously thought he was wonderful, although, as Peterson said, she probably didn’t get out much.

  I thought I’d do a little exploring myself, and callously leaving Peterson alone to fester, I set off to find Mrs Harewood.

  She was downstairs in the family sitting room, on her knees in front of the fire playing with Baby Jamie. Nanny sat over in the corner, keeping a beady eye on the pair of them and crocheting something lacy with gnarled fingers. Which was a shame because I wanted to gossip, but pas devant les domestiques, as Markham would say. And probably with a better accent than mine, as well.

  Again, this room was an overcrowded riot of heavy furniture and exuberant patterns. Patterned carpet, patterned curtains – all different patterns, obviously – heavy wooden furniture smothered in lacy coverings, millions of ornaments everywhere, and papered walls plastered with pictures of muddy landscapes and dead animals. Yes, welcome to middle-class Victorian England. But still not a Christmas decoration in sight. Although with this Ordeal thing hanging over them, I could understand that now.

  Fortunately, just as I entered, the clock on the mantel chimed four and Nanny and the baby disappeared for their Afternoon Nap. Exactly which of them would be availing themselves of this luxury was unclear.