The Ordeal of the Haunted Room

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Honestly?’ I said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  And then we heard it. Coming from below. A dull, pounding noise. And a voice shouting for help.

  I ran across the room, wrenched open the door and then remembered Peterson.

  ‘Go,’ he said, struggling to get off the bed. ‘Don’t wait for me.’

  I ran out into the corridor. All the candles were still lit. Nothing had changed. I don’t know why I thought it would. Only about half an hour had passed since we’d left Henry Harewood to face his Ordeal in the Haunted Room. I headed for the stairs. The pounding was louder now and I could hear the words.

  ‘Help. Help. Let me out. For God’s sake, let me out. I can’t . . . I . . .’

  I flew down the stairs, the frantic shouts ringing in my ears. Chance and Lillywhite were emerging from the sitting room. The reverend’s face had turned from an unhealthy grey to chalk white. It wasn’t an improvement.

  Markham was at the door, rattling the handle. ‘Unlock the door, Mr Harewood,’ he shouted. And then to me, ‘We have to get him out.’

  I could hear Mrs Harewood’s voice coming down the stairs. ‘Henry? Oh my God, Henry. What is happening?’

  ‘Get him out,’ shouted Markham again, pushing the Reverend Lillywhite towards the door in a very disrespectful manner.

  Lillywhite hesitated. ‘I don’t think you quite understand . . .’ He stood close to the door. ‘Henry, my boy. Just hold on. This means so much to you. Think of your wife and child.’

  The voice grew fainter. ‘Let me out. Can’t . . .’

  ‘You heard him,’ I shouted, wheeling on the vacillating vicar. ‘Let him out. Before it’s too late.’

  Yes, I know what you’re thinking. We’re not supposed to meddle. We’re supposed to let events take their course. Record and document only. Never interfere. I think it fair to say that for most of us at St Mary’s, this still needs some work.

  The pounding on the door was becoming weaker. Mrs Harewood arrived in a hurry. Elbowing the reverend into the middle of next week she began to batter at the door.

  I seized the reverend’s coat lapel. ‘Give me your key.’

  He was outraged. ‘Madam, I . . .’

  ‘Give me your key or I’ll knock you senseless and take it from your unconscious body.’

  He recoiled. Literally. And yes, I know I’ll never go to heaven but have you seen the sort of people who qualify for heaven? Seriously? You want to spend eternity with people like that?

  With trembling fingers, he pulled out his key and handed it over. Chance, eyeing me as if I was some sort of madwoman, was already holding his out to me.

  ‘It’s no use,’ shouted Mrs Harewood. ‘Henry has the other!’

  By now, Barnstaple and the two footmen had joined us. At the other end of the hall, the maids fluttered around the servants’ door, hands to their mouths, white and frightened. Some of them were crying. Eliza, however, was brandishing a rolling pin.

  And then, the pounding ceased. In the sudden silence, something slithered down the door. I heard the thud as it hit the floor.

  ‘Henry!’ screamed Mrs Harewood. The maids all screamed too. She threw herself at the door, slapping the panels. ‘Henry. Open the door. Use your key. Henry!’

  There was only silence from the other side of the door. Mrs Harewood was very nearly hysterical.

  ‘Perhaps, Mrs Farrell,’ said the reverend stiffly, removing my hand from his lapel, ‘your time would be better served attending to Mrs Harewood.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Stand aside, sir.’

  Peterson arrived, hobbling down the last few stairs. ‘I’ll see to Mrs Harewood. Markham – get that door open.’

  I handed him the keys, but if Henry hadn’t unlocked the door from his side, they’d be useless. They’d have to break the door down. Again..

  He hadn’t. Markham turned both keys but nothing happened. The door refused to budge. And time was ticking on. There was now no sound at all from the Haunted Room.

  I looked at Markham. I think we both suspected the same thing. Mrs Harewood was beyond speech just at this moment so I enquired of Barnstaple whether gas lighting had been installed in the room.

  He blinked at the question and then shook his head. ‘No, Mr Harewood would only consent to gas in the main rooms downstairs. He felt . . .’

  That was all I wanted to know. If the room was filling with gas and there were all those candles . . . and that blazing fire . . . then we’d have abandoned poor Henry and concentrated on evacuating the building. Especially Baby Jamie upstairs. But there was no gas. Whatever dangers awaited us, being blown to pieces was not one of them.

  Markham was eyeing our resources. Barnstaple was big and heavy. And John was a sturdy lad. In a couple of years, he too would have achieved the traditional butler silhouette.

  ‘Break the door down,’ he said tersely.

  It was a solid door. In films and holos, doors fly open if the hero so much as gives them a stern glance. This one put up a fight. The two men threw themselves at it again and again, seemingly making no impact at all. I was about to suggest someone try to batter their way through the windows from the outside when, with a great splintering of wood, the lock tore away. Several housemaids screamed but disappointingly, no one swooned.

  The door should have burst open, but this one moved only a few inches and then rebounded off something on the other side. Markham shoved John aside. ‘He’s collapsed on the other side of the door. Push.’

  He, John and Barnstaple put their shoulders against the door and heaved.

  Mrs Harewood was sobbing loudly, wringing her hands and calling her husband’s name, but there was only silence from inside the room. Henry Harewood lay unconscious on the floor, but what if there were something else in there with him . . . ?

  I looked around. Not far away stood one of those disgusting elephant’s feet, a useful receptacle for a number of umbrellas and walking sticks. I ran over, seized something substantial, ran back again and stood ready, stick raised high. If there was anything waiting to burst out of that room then it was going to have to get past me.

  The three of them heaved again, pushing Mr Harewood’s body along the floor as the door opened until it came to rest against the carpet from where it refused to budge. Markham squeezed through the gap. Not for the first time, I gave thanks he was quite small.

  Seizing him under the arms, he dragged Henry away from the door. Barnstaple and John surged forwards.

  Markham held up his hand. ‘No, no. Stay out.’

  They cast fearful glances around the room, obviously expecting the worst, but I’d seen Henry Harewood’s face. I took a deep breath and ran into the room.

  Wrenching aside the curtains, I averted my face and used my stick to bash away at the window panes. They were small and there were a lot of them but I got there in the end. Cold, harsh air billowed into the room.

  ‘Now,’ said Markham to John, waiting in the doorway. He seized Henry under the arms and John grabbed his feet. Together, they carried him from the room.

  ‘Dear God,’ shuddered Mr Lillywhite, looking down at Henry’s face. ‘The devil walks tonight.’

  Standing over by the windows, I took the opportunity to have a good look around.

  Nothing much had changed. The fire still burned with a bright, orangey glow so nothing had come down the chimney. At some point, Henry’d poured himself a glass of wine but not touched it. Likewise, the plate of food was uneaten. Until I got to them, the windows had all been sealed shut. The curtains had been laden with dust. The candles still burned in their sconces. And there were no gas jets in the room. I looked up at the ceiling. I’m not sure what I expected to see but it wasn’t there anyway. I looked down at the floor. A dusty parquet, with footprints showing where we’d burst in, and a trail of them to the armchair and the fire; but
the rest of the dusty floor was undisturbed. Wherever I looked there were absolutely no clues at all.

  The Reverend Lillywhite stood at the door, still apparently reluctant to enter in case he became contaminated. Mr Chance, a lawyer to his fingertips, had taken up his favourite position at the mantel.

  I went to stand by him, saying quietly, ‘What happens if Mr Harewood dies?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Well, when Mr Harewood senior was discovered, we resealed the room and waited until the next Winter Solstice after his death.’

  I nodded. ‘Which was just one year. But if this Mr Harewood dies, it will be a much longer wait for Baby Jamie, however.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He frowned heavily. ‘I’m not sure the estate will be able to stand it.’

  ‘It’s best Mr Henry doesn’t die, then.’

  He pursed his lips again and nodded.

  Behind me, Mrs Harewood, much calmer now we had her husband out of the Haunted Room, was instructing them to carry him to the family sitting room. She led the way. I could hear housemaids scurrying hither and thither under a volley of instructions. The reverend trailed after them, leaving me, Chance and Peterson.

  Mr Chance leaned against the mantel and closed his eyes. ‘It has happened again,’ he said faintly. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ I said.

  He opened his eyes. ‘I fail to take your meaning, Mrs Farrell.’

  I said nothing.

  He narrowed his eyes, suddenly a much less cheerful chappie than a couple of hours ago. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘Where do you come from? Who are your people?’

  ‘I told you. Rushford. St Mary’s Priory. My husband is Leon Farrell – the famous explorer.’

  ‘But you are travelling alone.’

  ‘With my brother.’

  His eyes narrowed further as he stared from me to Peterson and back again. ‘I can see no resemblance.’

  ‘Well, thank heavens for that,’ said Peterson, quite unkindly, I thought. Brothers.

  ‘I think, Mrs Farrell,’ said the solicitor, ‘that you should attend to Mrs Harewood.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peterson. ‘I’d feel much more confident of Henry’s survival if you were in the same room as him, Max.’

  Chance looked up. ‘What do you mean by that, sir?’

  ‘He’ll be all right for the moment,’ I said. ‘Markham won’t let him out of his sight.’

  Peterson said nothing.

  Eliza appeared in the doorway with the cheerful chaplain behind her. ‘Oh, ma’am . . . sirs . . .’ She bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mr Markham asks if you could join him at your earliest convenience, ma’am.’

  I was pretty certain Markham’s exact words had been tell her to get her arse in here.

  ‘How is Mr Harewood?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘They say he is still living, sir.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I said, and lifted my dressing gown out of the dust.

  ‘And I,’ said Peterson, ‘will perform the most vital function of all and guard this room.’

  Mr Lillywhite drew himself up. The phrase pillar of the church took on a whole new meaning. ‘I really don’t think that is at all necessary. There’s nothing of value in here.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Peterson. ‘But I’ll stay anyway. Just in case.’

  Chance bustled towards us, saying importantly, ‘As the family representative, I should be the one to take charge here.’

  Peterson smiled gently. Those who think he’s just a nice bloke with hair like a haystack don’t usually find out he’s not until it’s too late. ‘Charge is already taken,’ he said, quietly.

  Chance bridled. ‘And who are you, sir, to assume . . . ?’

  ‘Someone with no vested interest of any kind,’ said Peterson. ‘An unexpected arrival. A neutral observer. Now, if no one minds, I’ll just . . .’ He pulled up a chair and sat down with a sigh of relief.

  At some point, Barnstaple had also returned. Putting these unfortunate occurrences behind him he was, once again, the perfect butler. ‘May I bring you any refreshment, sir?’

  Peterson shook his head. ‘No, I’ll just sit quietly here. I think everyone has grasped that this room is dangerous, but just in case anyone has any ideas about nipping in and out while everyone’s back is turned . . .’ He tailed off and smiled amiably at everyone.

  Chance beat me to the sitting room but once at the doorway, politeness prevailed and he stepped aside to allow me to enter first. They’d stretched Henry Harewood on the sofa. I could see at once . . . his face . . .

  Someone – Markham, I guessed – had commanded them to open the windows. The curtains billowed in the wind and heavy rain pattered on to the rather fine table underneath. No one took any notice. It felt good to feel fresh air on my face again.

  Mrs Harewood, a sensible woman and excellent mother, had already removed her husband’s coat, collar and tie and was busy chafing his hands.

  ‘Brandy,’ she cried, looking wildly around.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Markham. ‘I don’t know about anyone else but I could certainly do with one.’

  It took a moment for her to grasp what he’d said and then she straightened up, all ready to annihilate him on the spot.

  I moved up behind her. ‘Please, Mrs Harewood, attend to your husband. I promise, you may safely leave all this to us.’

  She turned to me. I felt so sorry for her. She was frightened, bewildered and in agony for her husband. The last thing she needed was her social order undermined by a scruffy individual most famous for the frequency with which his internal system offered accommodation to a record-breaking number of parasites. Tapeworms, hookworms, flukes, ringworm – unpleasant things that burrowed blindly – Markham had provided five-star accommodation to them all. None of which Mrs Harewood needed to know. She was groping for words and I took advantage of her speechlessness.

  ‘Mrs Harewood, please. This was not an accident.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’ She looked around. ‘There are . . . it was . . . supernatural after all?’

  ‘Good heavens, no, madam,’ said Markham, cheerfully. ‘Just normal, deliberate, human deceit.’ He poured her a brandy and passed her the glass. ‘Just a sip.’

  She chugged it back like a professional and handed it back to him. Even Markham looked astonished. I felt proud of my gender although I didn’t dare look at the reverend.

  I watched her thoughts rearrange themselves. ‘Are you telling me . . .’ she said, ‘it was in the decanter? Someone – here in this house – poisoned my husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said boldly. ‘Someone here tonight meant to kill your husband.’

  She was struggling. ‘But this is . . . this is monstrous. It can’t possibly be true. I can’t . . . I won’t believe it. Are you suggesting that I . . . ?’

  Markham and I exchanged glances. By suspecting the decanter, Mrs Harewood had just ruled herself out. Not that I’d had any suspicions of her anyway.

  Mr Lillywhite approached. ‘Mrs Harewood, madam, this has been a trying night for you and these people – whoever they are – are not helping by making these baseless accusations. Allow me to ring for your maid. You will feel much happier in the peace and quiet of your own room.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she said, drawing herself up. Personally, I thought he was lucky not to get the decanter around his lughole. ‘How could I be happier in my own room when my dear Henry lies . . .’ She couldn’t go on.

  I suspected that never in his life had anyone called the Reverend Mr Lillywhite silly. Not to his face, anyway. He bridled.

  ‘My dear madam, I simply meant . . . the delicate state of your nerves . . . this unfortunate occurrence . . . and now these preposterous accusations . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said the solicitor, nastily, warming his bum at the fire. ‘Please feel free to repeat th
ese preposterous accusations in front of witnesses.’ He gestured around the room. ‘Two professional men – if I may count myself so – a butler of unimpeachable reputation,’ he paused for a quick headcount, ‘three maids and a footman. If you dare to repeat those accusations, Mrs Farrell, I shall have no other recourse than to a court of law. If, of course, you can persuade anyone to give credence to anything so trivial as the utterings of a female.’

  Behind him, Markham slipped from the room.

  ‘Oh,’ I said easily, chugging back a brandy myself, because why not? ‘I don’t anticipate any difficulties. The law will listen to me.’ I smiled that smile. The one that winds everyone up. ‘Mrs Harewood, if you will grant me the liberty of instructing your servants, I believe we can have all this cleared up in only a few moments.’

  On the sofa, Henry Harewood stirred. His wife flew to him. ‘Henry.’

  He tried to sit up. ‘Oh, my head.’ He became aware of his surroundings. ‘What? Why am I here? What has happened?’

  I bent over him and felt for his pulse. ‘There was an incident, Mr Harewood. You are perfectly safe now. I am sure your head is splitting but you will recover much more quickly if you lie quietly. Please be assured my colleagues have everything in hand. Barnstaple, would you be kind enough to place yourself in the doorway. And perhaps John, too. It would be unfortunate if anyone felt the need to leave prematurely.’

  Barnstaple looked to his mistress, who nodded. The two of them placed themselves just inside the doorway, shoulder to shoulder. I was reminded of Gandalf. ‘You shall not pass!’

  ‘Do not let anyone leave this room. You may, however, admit my colleagues who are standing behind you at this moment.’

  Markham and Peterson re-entered the room. Peterson was carrying the vase of spills from the Haunted Room. He placed it quietly on the table and sat down.

  I bent over Mr Harewood and felt for his pulse again. ‘Sir, Mr Harewood, are you able to tell us what happened to you?’

  He endeavoured to sit up and Mrs Harewood propped some cushions behind his head.

  ‘I locked myself in,’ he said, his eyes taking on that glazed look they do when people are trying to recall something. ‘I heard the other keys turning. I tugged at the door – just to assure myself it was locked. I heard Mr Chance’s and Mr Lillywhite’s footsteps die away and knew I was now alone.’