The Ordeal of the Haunted Room

by Jodi Taylor

  Markham nodded. ‘We are indeed, sir. If we examine these – now – in front of witnesses – we shall solve the mystery of the Ordeal of the Haunted Room. Everyone here tonight – with the exception of Mrs Harewood – was present at the last Ordeal.’ He looked up mischievously. ‘Shall we take a moment to speculate on the identity . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, just do it,’ cried Mrs Harewood. Obviously a woman happy to rush into action without a thought for the consequences. I wondered if she could possibly be an ancestor of mine.

  ‘And,’ continued Peterson remorselessly, ‘if we solve the murder of Mr Harewood senior then we solve the attempted murder of Mr Henry Harewood tonight. After all, this is a quiet neighbourhood, and it seems unlikely there would be two ruthless, conscienceless murderers within the parish.’

  ‘Someone tried to kill Henry,’ said Mrs Harewood, flatly. She said it again, and from the conviction in her voice, I knew she believed us. ‘Someone tried to murder my husband.’

  Markham nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Harewood, I am afraid so. Now, shall we find out who . . . ?’

  He seated himself at the table and very slowly began to unroll the first spill. It was blank. Then the second. Blank again. Every eye was upon him. The only sound was the faint rustle of paper as he unrolled one spill after another and laid it flat upon the table.

  Five more to go. Then four. Then three.

  With only two spills remaining, the murderer’s nerve broke. Sprinting across the room he made for the nearest window, wrenched at the curtains and scrabbled for the window catch. So fast did he move that just for a moment we were all taken unawares. It was Barnstaple, the true hero of the evening, who moved like lightning. Kicking aside a footstool, he seized the killer by his coat-tails as he fumbled at the window. Spinning him around, he bunched a massive fist and swung. The murderer flew through the air, crashing into two or three of the many knick-knack-laden tables scattered around, shattering them in the best dramatic traditions and then lying very still.

  Mrs Harewood rose to her feet in vengeful fury. Women weren’t much educated in this time and she therefore enjoyed the advantages of not having attended Harrow or Eton, and not having had the principles of fair play drilled into her. She had no hesitation therefore in playing her man while he was down and spent an enjoyable minute adding several swift kicks to the murderer’s current difficulties. It would, at this stage, have been perfectly proper for her husband to remonstrate with her over such unwomanly behaviour but strangely, he did no such thing. Finally, out of breath, she desisted.

  The murderer lay prone on the floor. Panting, Mrs Harewood stood over him and I had no doubt that should he manage to escape her wrath there was always Barnstaple behind her, just waiting for another opportunity. In other words – there was No Chance of escape.

  I have got to stop doing that.

  Unwisely, the Reverend Lillywhite bent over her. ‘My dear Mrs Harewood, such unchristian actions can only be caused by the profound pain and anguish you must be suffering. That you should have to witness such violence . . . I recommend a period of quiet reflection in the sanctuary of your own room while you remember your female responsibilities.’

  Actually, excitement had brought a flush to her cheeks, her hair was severely disarranged and I thought she looked very pretty. I could see her husband thought so too. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. ‘Oh, do be quiet, Lillywhite.’

  It seemed safe to assume Harewood Hall donations to the restoration of the church tower would be considerably reduced this year.

  Markham bent over a deeply unconscious Chance. ‘Very neat. Well done, Mr Barnstaple.’

  Barnstaple thrust his bruised knuckles behind his back and bowed to his mistress. ‘I do beg your pardon, madam.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said gaily. I suspected the brandy. ‘Your master and I are greatly in your debt, Barnstaple. How did you guess what he would do? I confess he took me completely by surprise.’

  Barnstaple bowed again. ‘Mrs Trent and I are responsible for a great many young people below stairs, madam. Most of them of the female persuasion. We have learned to expect the unexpected.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ murmured Mrs Harewood, and wisely probed no further.

  Leaving us all with this startling insight into life below stairs, Barnstaple was already supervising the removal of their former man of business. If the lock hadn’t been shattered, I suspect they would have locked him in the Haunted Room . . . dum . . . dum . . . dum . . . yes, we’re back to that again. Live with it.

  ‘The silver room, I think, madam,’ he said to Mrs Harewood as he and John manhandled him out of the room. ‘Both door and lock are substantial. And later this morning, first thing, I shall despatch John to notify the authorities.’

  ‘Thank you, Barnstaple,’ she said, and proceeded to pour herself another brandy. I had one too. We females need every assistance we can get to see us through the harsh rigours of life.

  As soon as the door had closed behind them, she turned back to Markham who had, in the last ten minutes, against all the odds, managed to make himself socially acceptable.

  He grinned at her. Slowly she reached out and unrolled the remaining spills.

  All were blank.

  She stared at him, bewildered. ‘How did you know Mr Chance was the murderer?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Markham confessed. ‘Sorry.’

  Henry Harewood was now sitting up properly. ‘So, my father wasn’t . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid he was. And I believe his last action was to leave the name of the man who had murdered him.’

  ‘But,’ he said, bewildered. ‘They’re all blank.’

  Markham pulled an apologetic face. ‘Yes. Sadly, I suspect it was written on the spill John used to light the fire.’

  Both Harewoods stared at him.

  Peterson was already pouring them a brandy.

  I had another one too.

  Eventually, Mrs Harewood was able to find her voice. ‘But why?’

  ‘I think you will find, madam, that Mr Chance’s administration of this estate has not been as . . . meticulous as it might have been.’

  ‘In other words, he’s been helping himself. For quite a long time, I suspect,’ said Peterson, helpfully.

  Henry Harewood looked up. ‘And my father suspected?’

  ‘I think so.Your grandfather was possibly not as able to monitor his affairs quite as he would have wished . . .’

  ‘Yes, he was unwell. His heart. His doctor had instructed him not to exert himself.’

  ‘So Mr Chance was, to some extent, unsupervised.’

  ‘Very possibly. He and my father . . . did not work well together.’

  ‘Really, you know,’ said Markham, ‘the whole thing was just too easy for him. I don’t expect he could help himself.’

  ‘Yet help himself he did,’ concluded Mrs Harewood, tightly.

  There was a pause. I made myself comfortable and waited, because I knew someone would say it sooner or later. I was not disappointed.

  ‘But I still don’t understand,’ said Mr Harewood. Behind him, Markham and Peterson high-fived before taking their seats at the table and preparing to answer questions. ‘How did he do it? How did he kill my father – and very nearly me – without leaving a trace? Were we poisoned?’

  ‘Gassed,’ said Markham.

  He shook his head. ‘Impossible. There is no gas anywhere upstairs. We keep it for the public rooms only. And I would have smelled it.’

  ‘Not that type of gas,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Carbon monoxide,’ said Markham. ‘I suspect nickel tetracarbonyl – and before anyone asks, it nearly happened to me once. An accident,’ he added in what he probably thought was a reassuring manner. ‘It’s a colourless, odourless gas. Quite undetectable in this instance. And quite painless.’ He looked at Henry Harewood. ‘You would sim
ply have gone to sleep and never woken up.’

  He shuddered. ‘Like my father.’

  ‘Somehow, your father had an idea what was happening to him. Not the technical details, of course. He didn’t know how, but he did know who and he did know why. I suspect he contemplated writing it on the table beside him, but that would have been too easy for Chance to wipe off when he burst into the room and so, with his last strength, he wrote his murderer’s name and concealed it in the only place possible and prayed it would one day be discovered.’

  ‘Chance must have been desperate to ensure the Ordeal wasn’t safely completed.’

  ‘Yes. When the Ordeal failed again, the room would be locked up and control of the estate would remain his for probably the next twenty years. Until Baby Jamie grew up – and he, Chance, would almost certainly be dead by then. And if he wasn’t – well, young Jamie would simply have been the latest to fail the Ordeal.’

  ‘But we were all there,’ interjected Mrs Harewood. ‘In the room with him. And he couldn’t have entered the room beforehand. How could he possibly have achieved it without anyone seeing?’

  ‘Right in front of our very eyes, madam. He very artistically dirtied his hands and wiped them on his handkerchief, in which he had already secreted half a dozen small phials of the substance in question. He then threw his handkerchief into the back of the fire. The impact broke the phials and the heat slowly released the gas through the fabric, giving him plenty of time to vacate the room. The effects would be felt by Mr Harewood in under thirty minutes and death would follow very shortly afterwards.’

  ‘Can you actually prove any of this?’

  Markham pulled out his own handkerchief and unfolded it, revealing three tiny pieces of smoke-blackened glass. ‘Dr Peterson found these in the back of the fireplace.’

  ‘How ever did you guess?’

  ‘The colour of the flames, madam. The gas makes flames turn orange. And the livid colour of your husband’s face. And there were several references to Mr Harewood senior’s complexion as well.’

  ‘But,’ said Mr Harewood, obviously about to ask the question no one had an answer to. ‘How did I burn my arm?’

  Markham has made a career out of plausible answers for implausible events. ‘Perhaps, while you were so light-headed and unsteady, you fell and burned your arm on the fender.’

  ‘In that case, how did I find the strength to get up again? And through my shirt and coat . . .’

  ‘Alas, sir, I cannot help you there.’

  ‘If it is of any comfort, Mr Harewood,’ said Peterson. ‘I don’t think anyone in this family will ever have to complete the Ordeal again. I suspect that after formal charges are brought, the remaining members of Chance’s firm will be only too happy to agree to a legal waiver of the Ordeal of the Haunted Room. The scandal would do them no good at all. And the conditions are too perfect for embezzlement. The estate could have been under his sole control for years to come.’

  ‘There would have been nothing left,’ murmured Mrs Harewood.

  Mr Harewood took her hand. ‘There may not be much left anyway.’

  ‘Unimportant,’ said his wife, firmly. ‘We will take what is left and rebuild. We are young and we have each other.’

  They gazed fondly at one another.

  ‘Well,’ said Peterson, pulling himself to his feet. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m feeling quite tired. If someone could remove the brandy from my sister’s reach, we’ll take ourselves off to bed.’

  Mrs Harewood stood with him. ‘I don’t know how we can ever thank you, sir.’

  He smiled. ‘There is no need, ma’am. You were kind enough to offer us the hospitality of your house. It was the least we could do. My foot is now very much recovered and you will have Christmas to prepare for. We will depart after breakfast, if we may, and leave you in peace.’

  I don’t know how anyone else slept that night but Victorian beds are surprisingly luxurious and comfortable. I sank into a warm soft slumber and was awoken at a respectable hour by an excited Eliza, who reported Mr Chance had been removed by the constable and was on his way to Rushford for the next assizes.

  We breakfasted well. Faced with two long rows of chafing dishes, we accepted the challenge. I worked my way through devilled kidneys, kedgeree, scrambled eggs, the best sausages ever, bacon, kippers, ham and cold beef. But not the porridge. Followed by fresh bread, creamy butter and apricot jam. All washed down with, in my case, steaming hot chocolate. I told Peterson that if we were going to have to carry him then I would need my strength.

  Unnecessary, as it turned out. They offered us the carriage. As Markham said, we’d now had the complete Victorian experience and could return confident in the knowledge of a job well done.

  The coachman dropped us outside the Royal Oak. We helped Peterson down and thanked the coachman. He tipped his hat and pulled away. We watched him down the street until he turned off for Harewood Hall and was out of sight.

  ‘All right?’ I said to Peterson.

  ‘I think so,’ he said bravely, but he wasn’t. He’d been fine last night in bedroom slippers but resuming his boots had not done his foot any good. He hadn’t said anything because it really was essential we cleared off before the authorities began their investigations.

  The pod was parked about a quarter of a mile behind the inn. We strolled through the bustling stable yard, with sweating horses being led away and new ones being harnessed. Passengers stood gulping coffee in the few minutes between changes. Grooms and ostlers raced back and forth. I wondered how much busier the yard would have been before the railways.

  Behind the extensive stable blocks stood a maze of anonymous buildings, barns, storerooms, carriage houses and so on, and behind that a cultivated area and orchard, behind that a patch of waste ground bordered by a wood and behind that, finally, our pod. Normally, just a hop, skip and jump, but after about fifty yards, the sweat was pouring off Peterson.

  ‘It’s not much further,’ I said, worried for him. He was looking very pale.

  ‘I’ll go on ahead,’ said Markham to me. ‘You two stay here and I’ll be right back with something painkilling.’

  ‘Hurry,’ I said because it was starting to rain again.

  He disappeared into the murk.

  I leaned Peterson against a tree like an old plank and we waited.

  Nothing happened. A fine rain fell on us. We sheltered under the tree as best we could.

  ‘The silly bugger’s lost,’ said Peterson impatiently. ‘I should have sent you, Max, except your sense of direction is even worse than his and you’d be in Reykjavik by now.’

  ‘Interesting about the wound on Henry’s arm,’ I said, to distract him. ‘Exactly the same place as his father’s.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And if Henry was virtually unconscious then who pounded on the door?’ He shifted his weight to ease his foot. ‘It would seem the so-called Haunted Room just might have been after all. Just by a different ghost to the one expected. With a slightly different agenda. One come to save – not kill.’

  The rain really started to come down. The feathers on my bonnet began to droop. Rain ran down my face. I began to brood. I think it was the injustice of it all. We were heroes. We’d Saved the Day. And here we were, up to our ankles in the mud, the cold, the wet, and thoroughly pissed off about it. And my feet were freezing. Where the bloody hell was Markham?

  ‘Right,’ I said, giving Peterson my muff to hold. ‘Time for action.’

  He looked uneasy. I think he thought I was going to amputate his foot. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘This.’

  Reader – I carried him.

  Well, for about three feet anyway and then I collapsed and he fell on top of me and then Markham turned up and laughed for an unnecessarily long time.

  Back at St Mary’s, I don’t think Dr Stone could un
derstand why, when he asked if we’d eaten or drunk anything contemporary during this jump, we fell about laughing. We paid for it, obviously – two days in Sick Bay and then it was off to see Dr Bairstow to regale him with details of our exciting, if unscheduled, adventure.

  Our reports lay on his desk in front of him. Occasionally, he would peer at one of them, highlight a detail, and then sit back as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

  ‘I notice you have, all of you, headed your reports The Ordeal of the Haunted Room.’

  The words dum . . . dum . . . dum . . . were very definitely not uttered. Not this time.

  He sat back. ‘You appear to have achieved quite high levels of direct interaction on this assignment. May I draw your attention to the importance of the record and document only aspect of our assignments?’

  I think the silence was answer enough.

  He sighed. ‘You were directly responsible for saving Henry Harewood’s life.’

  We nodded. We were.

  ‘Without you he would have died.’

  We nodded. He would.

  ‘And you are directly responsible for the solicitor Chance losing his.’ He looked up. ‘He would have hanged, you know.’

  I thought about trying to get away with saying that surely one would cancel out the other, so, overall, you know, problem solved, but decided against it.

  ‘Frankly,’ he said, sounding slightly disappointed, ‘I find myself astonished History didn’t strike you all dead on the spot.’

  I pulled out my scratchpad. ‘Well, actually, sir, it’s possible there might have been a very good reason for that.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, suddenly interested. ‘Do you think we could persuade History to pass it on? I frequently find myself quite desperate for a reason not to strike you all dead on the spot.’

  His staff chose to believe this was one of their employer’s little jokes.

  Sometimes I break things to him gently and sometimes I just hit him smack between the eyes with it.

  ‘We’ve been doing some research, sir,’ I said, opening up a data stack, ‘and I have to tell you it’s much worse than you think.’