The Ordeal of the Haunted Room
Author: Jodi Taylor
Date: 2020-12-25 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: kindle; fiction; sf; science fiction
Publisher: Headline

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

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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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.

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 sure 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.

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 him, 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.’

‘We 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.

I sank into a sofa from which, I suspected, I would have great difficulty extricating myself when the time came. Mrs Harewood sat opposite me, plaiting the fringe of her shawl, pulling it loose, then replaiting it again . . . a woman with something on her mind.

She began by asking after Peterson. I reassured her as to his injury and mentioned a couple of other times he’d spectacularly hurt himself, avoiding all reference to the plague, obviously. And the pox, because he always tends to confuse the two.

She said vaguely that was good news and then, her mind obviously elsewhere, repeated herself all over again, which gave me the opening I needed.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Harewood, you appear to be considerably distracted and I can’t help feeling at least partially responsible.’

‘No. Oh, no. Not at all. I’m so sorry, Mrs Farrell – this is not a good time for us, that’s all. Nothing to do with your brother’s unfortunate accident.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I said, ‘but if you’d rather not talk about it . . .’

Nothing ever gets people talking faster than an invitation not to talk about whatever is troubling them and, as I hoped, the appearance of a complete stranger whom she would never see again provided her with the ideal opportunity to unburden herself.

Details of the Ordeal of the Haunted Room tumbled over themselves, followed by her anxiety for her husband, her fears for the future and so on. ‘I mean, obviously, I’m completely confident that Henry will emerge unscathed, but after what happened to his father . . .’

‘But Mrs Harewood, please forgive my asking, but Mr Harewood senior was the legitimate heir, was he not?’

‘Oh yes. There could be no doubt. He was an only child of an only child.’

‘And there’s equally no doubt about this Mr Harewood?’

‘Absolutely none. Henry’s younger brother died some eight or nine years ago of an inflammation of the lungs. Something which had troubled him since childhood. Very sad but quite unremarkable. He always had a weak chest, I believe.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘However, I am certainly well supported. Mr Chance, our family solicitor, is here – a very capable man – and the Reverend Lillywhite, an old friend of the family and always so kind.’ She turned to me. ‘I don’t like to make light of your brother’s misfortune but I must tell you how very grateful I am to have another woman in the house tonight.’

It struck me that telling her wild horses couldn’t drag me out of this house tonight might not be the sympathetic and supportive attitude she wanted, so I patted her hand and smiled reassuringly.

‘So,’ she said briskly, ‘shall we have afternoon tea?’

I thought I’d already had afternoon tea but it seemed I hadn’t. That had been ordinary tea. This was Afternoon Tea.

Barnstaple and two maids wheeled in not one but two tea trollies, laden with doilies, silver teapots, bone china plates, cups and saucers, cake forks, and enough food to feed St Mary’s for three days.

‘Barnstaple, could you tell Mr Harewood and our guests that tea is ready, please. I think you’ll find them in the billiards room.’

‘At once, madam.’

Mrs Harewood poured me a cup of tea. I couldn’t help noticing it was a different tea service to the one I’d had tea in upstairs. Perhaps they had an upstairs tea service and a downstairs tea service. Just imagine – if they weren’t living in such straitened circumstances there might even be a different tea service for every room.

Setting that aside, what we did have were dainty sandwiches cut in the shapes of clubs, diamonds, spades and hearts, very tiny cakes, a whole pile of brandy-snap things, a massive fruit cake fresh from the oven, smelling like heaven and served in the traditional manner with a slice of Wensleydale, some sort of creamy posset, fruit pastries – oh God, I wasn’t going to get out of this alive.

I tried to start small and pace myself, but believe me, there was no chance. I even tried to concentrate mainly on the sandwiches, on the grounds they’d be marginally less lethal than the cakes, but my hostess encouraged me to partake at every opportunity. Hospitality was obviously a big thing in the Harewood household.

Speaking of hospitality, two minutes in, Henry Harewood turned up, towing two black-clad figures in his wake.

The Reverend Lillywhite was a tall, thin and cadaverous man. I’ve never actually met someone with a grey face before – not outside a zombie movie, obviously.

The solicitor, Mr Chance, short and bumptious, was far too cheerful to be a solicitor and his creaking waistcoat was evidence of too many afternoon teas at Harewood Hall.

‘Chance,’ he said, rolling across the room to shake my hand. ‘From Chance, Venture, Chance and Spigot. I’m the second one. What you might call “A Second Chance”. Eh? Eh?’

The universe failed to kill me now.

My first thought for Mr Harewood was that he was rather frail-looking for this Ordeal. His fair hair was thin and receding already. He looked very young for his twenty-five years and wore country tweeds, shabby but good. The reverend, obviously, wore clerical bands and Mr Chance announced his profession in a rusty black coat with a wing collar. A watch chain strained across his ample girth. A key hung therefrom.

Henry Harewood greeted me very politely. If he was concerned over his forthcoming Ordeal, none of that showed in his face. If I didn’t know better, I would swear he was utterly delighted to hear of our arrival. That the only thing his life had been lacking up to this very moment was the spontaneous arrival of three dubious-looking individuals and none of them with credentials of any kind. Letters of introduction were very important. In such a tightly interlocked society, everyone pretty much knew everyone else, and anyone venturing into a new area would bear letters of introduction, thus establishing them as proper and respectable people with mutual friends. Or, in our case – not. Obviously, we didn’t have any letters and they might easily have confined us to the Servants’ Hall or even turned us away completely, but fortunately, given the dreadful weather outside, kindness and charity had prevailed.

‘My dear Mrs Farrell, I do hope my wife has made you comfortable.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Harewood, we’ve been made most welcome. I can only apologise for disturbing you. Blame my brother’s lamentable inability to look where he is going.’

Mrs Harewood smiled at her husband. ‘I’ve had some tea sent up to him, dear.’ She turned to me. ‘If he is well enough to eat, of course.’

I refrained from telling her that even in death Peterson would still be well enough to eat.

The reverend clasped my hand in his clammy claw. As soon as I could, I detached myself from his grasp, picked up my plate to keep my hands out of his reach and prepared to listen.

Conversation was very stilted – polite enquiries after my brother, where were we from, had we any mutual friends or relatives – the usual stuff. I smiled, invented people and places with creative abandon and made a note to brief Peterson later. It would be so typical of him if, after I’d spent an imaginative ten minutes describing last summer with Batty Aunt Jemima at Harrogate, he turned around and told them she’d died ten years ago.

Every now and then the conversation would tail away and then they would remember their manners and it would all start up again.

‘And where was your destination, my dear madam?’ intoned the reverend, who had found a space on the sofa beside me, only very inadequately managing to conceal his disapproval of husbandless females roaming the landscape.

‘I’m on my way to join my husband,’ I said. A fit and proper activity for a wife. Even the church couldn’t object to that. ‘Mr Farrell is an explorer. At present he’s studying the Moche culture in Peru.’

He was horrified. ‘You are surely not joining him there? Among the savages? Hardly a fitting place for a gently born female.’

‘A wife’s place is at her husband’s side,’ I said primly, embarking on an enjoyable stroll down the highways and byways of hypocrisy. ‘No matter the trials or tribulations, my womanly duty is always to my husband,’ and spent an enjoyable few minutes watching him struggle with the unreconcilable beliefs that a wife should always support her husband but that the proper place for said wife was in the home.

Determined to find something to criticise, he frowned at me. ‘And yet the weather is terrible, Mrs Farrell. What sort of brother brings his sister out on a day like this?’

‘Ah,’ I said gaily. ‘Now that you can blame me for, Reverend Lillywhite. We broke our journey at the inn and I suggested a walk after being cooped up for so long in the carriage. Barely had we gone a mile or so when my brother fell and twisted his foot. I don’t think it’s broken – just a bad sprain. He will probably be as right as rain tomorrow.’

‘You have nursing experience?’ he said, with a wary eye on Mrs Harewood lest I contaminate her with these modern ideas.

‘A little,’ I said, because as Markham frequently explains to Hunter, nursing is no job for a lady. ‘Nothing formal, of course, but with a husband, a brother, a son and clumsy friends, I have gained some experience over the years.’

He smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it and after this flurry of conversation, things subsided. An awkward silence fell. I chomped away. A prudent historian always eats when she can because she never knows where the next meal will be coming from. Mr Harewood stirred his tea. On and on and on . . . Eventually the silence was broken by Mrs Harewood.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said impatiently. ‘Mrs Farrell is perfectly well aware of our circumstances. There really is no need for all this heavy-handed discretion.’ She turned to me. ‘As you are aware, Mrs Farrell, tonight is the night my husband takes part in a . . . a family ritual, the successful completion of which will lead to him coming into his full inheritance.’

She sat down with a defiant so there expression on her face.

I wanted to get them talking about the Ordeal, so I enquired of Mrs Harewood if this was a long-standing family tradition. Which, on reflection, might have been a bit of a mistake.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘On the first Winter Solstice after . . .’

‘Paganism!’ exclaimed the reverend and I nearly spilled my tea.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘The Roman Saturnalia,’ he cried, eyes glowing with a strange and disturbing fervour, ‘with its licentious behaviour and overturning of the proper order. The Druids and their heathen sacrifices. And now this – the barbaric ritual with its overtones of darkness and devil-worship – I beg your pardon, ladies – but the violence of my feelings . . . I say again, Mr Harewood – this outdated superstition should find no place in the modern Christian household . . .’

I toyed with the idea of telling him Jesus had probably been born in March and the Christian church had piggybacked their festival on the existing Yule traditions. And probably best not to get him started on Eostre, either. We had enough melodrama without adding an unstable vicar into the mix and besides, little flecks of foam were collecting at the corners of his mouth.

‘. . . And the light of the Christian faith pushing back the shadows of cruel pagan practices . . .’

I could feel myself gearing up to compare cruel pagan practices to the compassionate ministrations of the Spanish Inquisition and Mrs Harewood was regarding her husband with a very wifely ‘Oh God, now we’ve set him off again,’ expression, when Barnstaple, obviously well versed in the vicar’s little ways, earned his pay for the day by offering him an enormous slab of fruit cake and a correspondingly colossal piece of Wensleydale. Rising to that challenge would certainly keep him quiet for a few minutes so I leaped back into the conversation before anyone could have the good manners to change the subject.

‘But you are not actually poor,’ I said, because, as has frequently been pointed out, I have no tact. I gestured around at their not opulent but still quite comfortable surroundings.

‘Oh,’ Mrs Harewood said, grasping my meaning. ‘The funds allow us enough to keep the estate going.’ She cast a dour look at Mr Chance. ‘But for such expenses as personal expenditure, Jamie’s future schooling and so on . . . my husband is not currently even allowed access to his own money.’

‘My dear,’ murmured Henry Harewood. ‘We have discussed this.’

The Reverend Lillywhite – whom I was really coming to dislike – abandoned paganism and prepared to mount what was obviously his other hobbyhorse – that women were not equipped to understand the law and how it worked. I slung him another slice of cake and a couple of brandy snaps.

Mr Chance was displaying signs of agitation. ‘Mrs Harewood, I understand your concerns, but we have been over this many times and I really feel we should not be burdening Mrs Farrell with our private affairs.’

She twisted in her seat to look at him. ‘Our private affairs?’

He blinked under her ferocity and then recovered himself. ‘As your husband’s solicitor, ma’am . . .’

This was interesting – there was obviously no love lost between these two – and I suspected she didn’t love the Reverend Lillywhite either – but unfortunately, I never found out how their little tiff ended because one of the maids, possibly reacting to the overwrought atmosphere, dropped a plate of cakes. The plate fell on to one of the many marble-topped occasional tables scattered around the room as thickly as ants on a jam sandwich.

I don’t know about anyone else but I nearly jumped through the roof. Plate and sandwiches bounced off the table on to the carpet and disintegrated. Jane gave a cry and dropped to her knees. To pick up the pieces, I hoped, rather than beg forgiveness.

‘It’s all right, Jane,’ said Mrs Harewood calmly as Barnstaple surged forwards like the Wrath of God. ‘Please don’t scold, Barnstaple. I think we’re all a little on edge today.’

Having picked up the pieces, Jane fled, spurred on her way by Barnstaple’s disapproving frown. I suspected he was a much sterner disciplinarian than his mistress.

‘I should be rejoining my brother,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Dinner this evening will be at the usual time.’ She raised her voice a little. ‘We won’t change, as a courtesy to Mrs Farrell, but otherwise everything will be exactly as usual, Barnstaple. Exactly as usual,’ she added with emphasis.

‘Very good, madam.’

‘My brother believes he will be recovered enough to join us,’ I said, diplomatically translating Peterson’s declaration that nothing would make him miss this, even if his entire leg fell off.

‘How delightful,’ she said vaguely. The gentlemen rose and I left the room.

Peterson was still reclining on a plate-bestrewn bed. ‘I have to keep my strength up,’ he said before I even uttered a word.

‘You’re expected at dinner. If you think you can make it.’

‘Of course I can.’ He gestured at a duck-headed walking stick. ‘Donated by the master of the house.’

To pass the time, I took another look at his minty-smelling foot and told him he probably only had an hour to live. We discussed events downstairs – I described Lillywhite and Chance in a manner that wasn’t flattering to either of them. I peered out through the curtains – I don’t know why because it was pitch-black out there. Peterson discovered a Bible in a drawer in his bedside table and began to read out the good bits. I wandered around, bored. ‘Do we know where buggerlugs has got to?’

Peterson looked up from the Whore of Babylon. ‘Disappeared under a sea of adoring housemaids, probably.’

‘I heard that,’ said Markham, entering at that moment. ‘And actually, I’ve been gathering intel. With Barnstaple out of the way they couldn’t wait to gossip. I gather your husband’s an explorer, Max. Now then,’ he added, hunting through the plates in the vain hope Peterson might have left something uneaten, ‘this Haunted Room . . .’

‘Dum . . . dum . . . dum.’

‘Will you stop doing that?’

‘What do you think?’ said Peterson. ‘Anyway, what about this Haunted Room?’

‘It’s located on the ground floor between the library and Mr H’s study. Probably a ladies’ parlour once upon a time. Now kept locked at all times. For obvious reasons. No one ever goes in there except on the night of the Ordeal.’

‘Does anyone know what’s inside?’

‘According to Margaret – who, to the admiration of her co-workers, contrived to be present on the night of the last Ordeal – and from the quick glimpse she caught as they broke down the door – it’s quite a small room. Dusty, obviously. She saw a fireplace with an ornate mantel, one end of a table and what she persisted in referring to as the Armchair of Death because Mr Harewood was sprawled in it, head back, arms hanging, his face a terrible colour, and, I quote, “Quite, quite dead, Mr Markham”.’

Peterson frowned. ‘He hadn’t cried out at all?’

‘Nope. And there had never been a problem with the Ordeal before. I gather no one was expecting anything untoward. They locked him in – there was a lot of joking about the ghost – and then they retired to wait in comfort.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Mr Henry Harewood. Not Mrs Letitia, for some reason. Those two cheerful buggers, Chance and Lillywhite. Mrs Victoria, Harewood senior’s wife, was present too. She screamed and fainted and Margaret said she never saw any more because Chance slammed the door and told her to look after her mistress.’

‘Wow,’ I said again. ‘Right – plan of action for this evening. Peterson and I will go down to dinner. You’ll help Peterson get downstairs. Having done that, make yourself scarce and hang around the Haunted Room . . .’

‘Dum . . . dum . . . dum,’ said Peterson valiantly.

‘. . . to make sure no one’s setting up any funny business.’

‘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. Nothing 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 feel 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.’

And that was just what we did. Mr Lillywhite clasped his hands and closed his eyes. I suppose that’s the advantage of being a vicar – people never know if you’re praying or whether you’ve just dropped off after another heavy meal.

The clock struck eleven. I counted the strokes. I think we all did. In an hour’s time . . . We sat and watched the hands on the clock inch their way towards midnight. The clock struck half past eleven. All conversation had long since ceased. We sat in silence for a few minutes and then, suddenly, evidently unwilling to hang around any longer, Mr Harewood slapped his knees and rose to his feet.

‘I can bear this no longer. Let’s get it over with, shall we? Is everything ready, Barnstaple?’

Barnstaple ceased to tidy away the tea things and looked across to his master. A candelabrum stood on the table at his elbow, lighting his face from below. For a very fleeting moment, he was no longer the comfortable, conventional butler, supervising the staff with quiet efficiency. Just for one moment, in the flickering candlelight, his face was full of shadows and mystery. And then it was gone and he was Barnstaple again. ‘Everything is ready, sir.’

‘Then off I go.’

It took a while for them to organise themselves. I simply picked up my shawl and draped it around my shoulders. I’ve always believed in travelling light. We trailed out of the room. The whole house blazed with light. They must have lit every chandelier, every sconce, every candelabrum, every oil lamp. Shadows had been banished. It must have taken them ages to light this lot.

Mr and Mrs Harewood led the way. He clutched an armful of books, saying over his shoulder, ‘An excellent opportunity for me to reread the Iliad, Chance.’

Mr Lillywhite frowned. I suspected he felt it would have been more appropriate for Mr Harewood to have armed himself with the family Bible, and he might have been right. Given the size of most of them I reckoned it could do some real damage if wielded in anger.

Messrs Chance and Lillywhite followed the Harewoods and they in turn were followed by Barnstaple and a gaggle of housemaids bearing all the various pieces of kit deemed essential for the coming Ordeal. Peterson, leaning heavily on Markham, limped behind them and I trailed along at the back. My traditional position in the scheme of things.

As Markham had said, the room was on the ground floor, next to the library. It would have been on the east side of the house so I could easily see it being a favourite place for ladies to sit in the mornings. Although not any longer.

We halted outside a door indistinguishable from any of the others. I was rather disappointed there were no bloody handprints around the handle, or any deep gouges in the wood as a terrified occupant had clawed at the door, driven mad by terror. Although as Peterson later pointed out, they would all be on the inside of the door, Max, wouldn’t they, you idiot?

There was, however, a brand-new lock. To replace the one from Mr Harewood senior’s Ordeal, presumably. When they’d broken down the door and found him sitting there . . .

Mr Harewood clutched his half dozen books and Barnstaple supported a silver tray with a decanter, a glass and several covered plates of food barely sufficient to keep a normal man on his feet for a week. John carried a box of kindling, two housemaids had brought a coal scuttle each, and an excited-looking Eliza was burdened with a dozen or so long candles.

There were three locks on the door just as Mrs Harewood had said. One at head height, one above the door handle and one below.

I heard the big clock in the hall begin to strike a quarter to midnight.

There was a moment’s silence and then the solicitor, Chance, stepped up. ‘We must not be late. If you are ready, Mr Lillywhite.’

From the look on his face, the reverend was neither willing nor able. He was, however, ready. Wearing what could only be described as his ‘I am among pagans’ expression, he stepped up to the door.

Reaching up, he inserted the key in the highest lock, which turned with little effort. I suspected Barnstaple had been round with an oil can and feather. Withdrawing the key, the reverend stepped back to make room for Mr Chance – who was not smiling, just for once. He copied the vicar’s actions, opening the lock below the handle.

They both stepped back and finally it was Henry Harewood’s turn. Handing his books to his wife to hold for him, he took out his key and inserted it into the final lock. The sound of it turning was very loud in the silence. Withdrawing the key, he tucked it into his breast pocket. I assumed the three separate locks with their three separate keys were to prevent any unauthorised access to the Haunted Room. Or unauthorised egress as well. Henry might have a key but he’d be unable to get out of the room if the other two refused to use theirs. I had a sudden thought. Would they let him out if he begged them? I could picture a terrified Henry Harewood clawing at the door, screaming to be released, and a smiling Chance refusing to budge, saying, ‘It’s for your own good, my dear sir. Only another six hours to go . . .’ while the reverend intoned a psalm in the darkness.

The door swung silently open. Darkness yawned at us. There was a cold, damp breath of air in our faces that was suddenly very unpleasant. Our candles flickered and shadows jumped across the wall. One of the maids shrieked. Not to be left out, another one or two others screamed as well. Disappointingly, no one swooned.

Henry Harewood raised his candle high. I think anyone would have forgiven him a slight tremor but the light shone steady and strong. Without hesitation, he crossed the threshold and stepped into the room. The rest of us remained in the doorway, peering in.

I couldn’t see much – Barnstaple was substantial, even for a butler – but the dim light revealed a thick coating of dust over every horizontal surface. No footprints showed. Nor fingerprints, either. Every surface was completely undisturbed and it was very obvious that nothing had been moved and no one had entered this room since the last Ordeal. The faded curtains had not even been drawn back from the windows. I could imagine everyone scrabbling to get Mr Harewood senior out of the room as quickly as possible, slamming the door behind them. Keeping whatever lived in this room safely contained behind the door. I looked around. Was it watching at this very moment? Watching us from the shadows? Waiting for us to leave, when it would have Henry Harewood to play with during all those long hours until the sun rose again?

I could hear the rain still lashing against the window panes behind the curtains. The rain hadn’t let up for one moment since our arrival. Despite the high wind whistling in the chimney, the curtains were quite still. Unusually for a house this age there was no draught here. The windows were indeed tightly sealed.

This had clearly once been a very pleasant room but now, sadly, was musty, fusty and dusty, which I thought sounded like three cartoon characters, and it occurred to me that possibly I had had too much wine at dinner after all.

A sofa which would normally reside by the fire had been pushed under one of the windows. A long table, thick with dust, would have been ideal for reading, dressmaking, bonnet trimming, husband hunting, watercolours, or any of the pastimes deemed suitable for Victorian ladies by Victorian men.

A delicate chandelier hung overhead and the central square of carpet – where not covered in dirt – showed a pattern of garlanded roses. With what would, no doubt, have been a pretty view out over the gardens, I could see it would once have been a lovely room. But not tonight. Tonight it made no attempt to welcome the intruders.

The mirror over the mantel was spotted with age and threw back distorted versions of ourselves. Everything in here felt not quite right. Just a little off. And very, very cold. I could see Henry Harewood’s breath clouding in the damp air.

He walked slowly across the room, holding his candle high. A number of us followed on behind him. I have to say – I wasn’t that keen to enter but I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t, so I followed Peterson and Markham into the room.

John peeled off to begin clearing the remains of the old fire and laying the new. None of the maids would come in – they clustered outside, nervously peering around the doorjamb, squeaking and jumping at every loud noise.

Mrs Harewood also refused to enter. She stood outside with the maids as Barnstaple deployed his forces. John was laying the fire with professional speed. Barnstaple was laying the table – because of course Mr Harewood hadn’t eaten anything for two hours, which was probably illegal in middle-class Victorian England. He spread a crisp white cloth across part of the dusty table – because he had standards, obviously – and began, slowly and meticulously, to lay the table. Napkins, plates, forks . . . Bringing a breath of normality to the situation. Whatever horrors gathered in the corners of the room, Barnstaple was checking the maids had packed the right forks.

The solicitor, Chance, prowled around, checking the windows, and finished eventually at the mantel, where he took up a position that would enable him to observe everything. The reverend stood by the table with an expression of stern determination.

John took a spill from the jar on the mantel. Lighting it from a candle, he applied it to the fire. A small, unenthusiastic yellow flame ran along a splinter of kindling. It was touch and go whether the fire would light. He was already reaching for another spill when, finally, it caught.

The footman plied the bellows like a madman before the flames changed their mind, presumably. I was certain lighting fires wasn’t usually part of his job and he just wanted to be out of this room as quickly as possible.

Looking back through the door into the warm, brightly lit, normal world beyond, I could see the maids had all retreated to a safe distance. I suspected Mrs Harewood’s servants had divided themselves into two camps – those who wanted to see what was happening here – from a safe distance, of course – and those who couldn’t even be dynamited out of the Servants’ Hall tonight.

Mr Harewood surveyed the old armchair close to the fire. The one in which his father had died. ‘I think, Barnstaple . . .’

‘Of course, sir.’

He made a gesture and John ceased his work with the bellows. Together the two of them removed the armchair to a dark corner, bringing up another from the other side of the room. I personally wouldn’t have done that. The thought of that old chair, with its former occupant, staring at me, unseen, from that dark corner . . . while the shadows gathered . . . I wondered if it had occurred to anyone there might be two ghosts in this room now.

However, Mr Harewood seemed happy enough, arranging it just so before the fire and thumping the cushions. A cloud of dust arose. He stepped back, coughing.

‘Henry,’ said his wife reprovingly from the doorway. ‘Your coat.’

He smiled faintly. ‘Sorry, my dear.’ But she had brought another welcome breath of normality to the room. Or perhaps it was just the fire warming things up.

Barnstaple was lighting the candles around the room. Was it my imagination or were they not making any difference? I could imagine the resentful shadows fighting back. This was the night of the Winter Solstice. This was their night.

Peterson, Markham and I were clustered out of everyone’s way, just inside the doorway. We watched Barnstaple set a small table alongside the chair, dust it fastidiously, and place the decanter and glass on the top. The fire was blazing nicely and if you didn’t know the purpose of this room and couldn’t smell the must, then everything would be lovely.

‘Well,’ said Henry cheerfully, looking around. ‘A good fire, books and wine. I think I shall spend a very comfortable night.’

Mr Chance looked down at his grimy hands, grimaced, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Wiping his hands, he regarded the dark smudges with distaste. Looking up, he saw me watching him, lifted his chin defiantly and tossed it into the fire. ‘Shall we look at our watches, gentlemen?’

I was pleased to see he had a slight struggle removing his watch from his tightly straining pocket. I suspected our Mr Chance visited Harewood Hall rather frequently. On the Off-Chance of a good meal, perhaps. OK, I promise I’ll stop now.

Peterson and Markham had remained nearer to the door. I knew if anything was to happen, Markham, at least, wouldn’t miss a trick.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr Chance, softly. ‘I make the time six minutes to midnight.’

‘And I,’ said Mr Lillywhite.

Mr Harewood fumbled for his own watch. ‘And I.’ He walked over to his wife. ‘Don’t wait, my dear. Go back into the warm. I shall see you before you know it.’

Mrs Harewood took an audible breath, stepped into the room and took her husband’s hand. ‘Do you have everything you need, Henry?’

‘I do indeed.’ He patted her hand.

She lifted her chin. ‘In that case, my dear, I shall wish you a very good night.’ Her voice was firm and her glance didn’t waver.

He kissed her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Letitia. Sleep well.’

She took one long, last look around the room – just a conscientious wife making sure her husband had everything to make him comfortable – bade us all a general goodnight and withdrew. Slowly and without running. I admired her restraint.

Mr Chance began to move towards the door. ‘Do you have your key, Mr Harewood?’

He patted his breast pocket. ‘Quite safe, Chance.’

‘Please remember, Mr Harewood, under no circumstances can the door be opened before the end of the Ordeal. That is very important.’

Henry Harewood nodded.

For a moment I thought Mr Chance would say something else – something comforting, perhaps, but after a long pause he said only, ‘Remember, Mr Harewood, to lock your side of the door.’

‘I shan’t forget.’

The Reverend Lillywhite bowed formally and followed him out, very carefully not touching anything in case he caught a nasty dose of paganism.

We all listened as Mr Harewood locked the door from his side. As he finished, the clock in the hall began to toll midnight. The time of the Ordeal was upon us.

I watched Chance lock the door and pocket his key. I watched Lillywhite lock the door and pocket his key. Having done so, they seemed at rather a loss as to what to do next.

Peterson yawned and said it was time for him to go to bed as well and that seemed to be a signal for everyone to shuffle their feet and disperse to a muttered chorus of goodnights.

Markham had already disappeared but I would bet good money he wasn’t far away.

The house was completely silent as I helped Peterson back to his room. Mr Harewood was locked in for the night and come what may, no one would let him out before morning.

Eliza was waiting for me in my room. It would seem that in addition to the shawl, Mrs Harewood had also loaned me a nightdress and wrapper. Not a froth of lace and ribbons, I noted, but something sensible in light wool. I sighed. At what point in my life had the universe deemed me unsuitable for frivolous nightwear and decided that wool was to be my lot henceforth? But it was a very pretty pink and, watching the curtains billow slightly at the windows, I was certain I’d be grateful for the warmth.

Eliza was very helpful with the corsets – which made me glad I’d gone with contemporary underwear. Uncorseted women were an affront to God and society. And she wouldn’t let me take down my own hair, either. She busied herself tidying my stuff away, spinning it out as long as she could. I suspected she didn’t want to walk back to the Servants’ Hall on her own. Eventually, even she couldn’t linger any longer.

‘Shall I leave the candles burning, ma’am?’

‘Yes, please, but take one for yourself if you need it.’

I climbed into bed for the look of the thing. It was soft and the sheets were warm. She’d obviously been at them with the warming pan. She turned at the door and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Goodnight, ma’am.’

‘Goodnight, Eliza.’

She closed the door quietly behind her.

I waited five minutes for her to get clear. The clock on the mantel said twenty past twelve. I pulled on my unglamorous but warm dressing gown and eased open my door. Believe it or not, such scandalous behaviour was probably the most hazardous part of this night. Peterson was only across the landing but brother or otherwise, anyone caught creeping into a bedroom not their own in these times would be out on their ear before the shouting stopped. I stood for a moment, listening carefully. I had my story ready. If anyone appeared, I thought I had heard my brother calling. But there was nothing. No sinister footsteps. Not even a mouse scratching behind the wooden panelling. The landing was well lit by a large candelabra at each end and another at the head of the stairs, and there were no hiding places.

I slipped out through the door, closing it quietly behind me, and ghosted across to Peterson’s room. He was alone. Markham, I guessed, was still concealed downstairs, watching for foul play.

Peterson was wearing gaily striped PJs in blue and white, which is not a sight to encounter unexpectedly. I did not reel but that’s only because I’m supposed to be a highly trained professional. ‘Good God, you look like a convict.’

He smoothed the front of his PJs and looked down at himself. ‘I thought I looked quite dashing.’

‘First things first,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a look at your foot.’

Actually, it looked much better. Still black but the swelling had greatly subsided. A tribute to the housekeeper’s ointment, I said. A tribute to his superior constitution, he said.

‘I’m fine,’ he continued, bravely. ‘As long as I keep my foot flat and don’t flex it, it hardly hurts at all.’

‘Good,’ I said, losing interest. It had only been a polite enquiry anyway. I’d have said good if it had actually fallen off and I’d accidentally kicked it across the floor.

‘What do you think will happen?’ he said, leaning back on his pillows.

‘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 these 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.’

He continued, more strongly now. ‘I took up a candelabrum and examined the room. Dust was everywhere and it was obvious no one had been in there since . . .’ He choked. Mrs Harewood held a brandy to his lips. ‘. . . Since my father’s death.’

I was watching him closely. Normally you look to see a person regain their colour but Henry Harewood was losing his. His hectic flush was slowly dying away.

He was continuing. ‘Having assured myself I was completely alone, and drawn by the warmth of the flames, I seated myself by the fire and went to pour some wine.’

‘It was the wine,’ cried Mrs Harewood. ‘I knew it. Henry, the wine was poisoned.’

‘Please pardon my contradiction, madam,’ said Markham, ‘but it was not.’

Henry shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter – I didn’t have time to drink it.’

He chugged back some more brandy and Markham said, ‘Continue, sir.’

Henry stared at Markham for a moment, obviously attempting – as so many had done before – to ascertain exactly who this person was and what did he think he was playing at, while not being so discourteous to his guests as to point out their servant’s impudence. A real social conundrum but I’ve learned just to go with it. He – Markham – usually knows what he’s doing. It amuses him to play the clown but trust me – he’s not.

‘Well, I opened my book. The Iliad.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve been meaning to enjoy Pope’s translation again but there never seems to be the time.’

His eyes clouded.

‘Henry!’ said his wife sharply, obviously long accustomed to recalling her spouse from whichever academic hinterland he’d wandered into.

‘Yes, my dear,’ he said absently, and then, more strongly, ‘yes. Well, I opened my book and almost from the first page the lines seemed to dance before my very eyes. I felt an overwhelming desire to relax, to lean back, to close my eyes and fall fast asleep.

I exchanged a glance with Markham and Peterson. Peterson had laid his hand protectively on the vase. Barnstaple and John continued to stand motionless and forbidding. The Argonath.

‘I have never felt so tired. No matter how I struggled, my lids were heavy. My breathing slowed. My head was so thick. I could no longer remember where I was. Or even who I was. I just had to sleep.’

His wife buried her head in his shoulder. ‘Oh, Henry.’

‘Now, my dear.’ His movements were a little uncoordinated but he did his best to pat her in a reassuring manner very similar, probably, to the way he would calm a gun-shy spaniel. ‘I am here now. It’s all over.’

Mr Chance looked up from the fire. ‘Sir, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that since you did not complete the Ordeal, it is, unfortunately, not all over.’

‘Oh, be quiet,’ cried Mrs Harewood. I was really getting to like her. I could just see her in a green and purple sash campaigning for women’s suffrage in the decades to come. But back to the plot.

Mr Lillywhite, looking still more unhealthy, even for a member of the undead – sorry, clergy – stammered, ‘Forgive me, Mr Harewood, but I must ask – were you conscious of any . . . any pagan presence at all?’

Harewood laughed. ‘My dear sir, I was barely conscious. I felt as if my whole body were being dragged backwards into the dark. A tiny voice was shouting at me to rouse myself, to leave the room forthwith, but my limbs were too heavy. I could not move them. I could not resist in any way.’

‘But you must have, dearest,’ said Mrs Harewood. ‘We heard you banging on the door. We heard you shouting to be released. Do you not remember that?’

He passed his hand over his forehead. ‘I am not sure. I have no recollection. I suppose I must have.’

I looked at his hands. They were unmarked and perfectly clean. I remembered the solicitor Chance’s grubby paws, but for Henry there had been no bruising and his fingernails were intact. These were not the hands of a man who had pounded on a door, shouting for his life.

‘Mr Harewood,’ I said. ‘Out of curiosity – how did you rouse yourself sufficiently to alert us to your predicament?’

Yes, I really was talking like a heroine in a Victorian melodrama. Any moment now I would be saying, ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand . . .’ thus enabling the big strong hero to explain everything to the little woman.

‘Well,’ he said, blinking. ‘It was the damn— the strangest thing. I felt myself going and then – so strange – a searing pain in my left arm.’

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck lift. ‘Please, can you show me?’

Obligingly, he rolled back his shirt sleeve and there, two inches below the inside of his elbow – an angry red burn. That had to have hurt. No wonder it had roused him.

I stared at it. Markham stared at it. Peterson stared at it. Three of St Mary’s finest, trained to deal with every emergency known to man – and quite a few that haven’t been invented yet – and we gawped like idiots.

Eventually, I said, ‘That looks painful.’

‘It is,’ he said, rolling his sleeve down again. ‘But Mrs Trent will have an ointment for it. She usually does.’

‘You should be grateful,’ I said. ‘The pain, however caused, was sufficient to bring you temporarily to your senses.’

He nodded. ‘I pulled myself out of the chair. I knew this was no normal slumber. Nothing – nothing could have induced me to sleep – to close my eyes, even – in that accursed room. Holding to the furniture for support, I managed to propel myself towards the door. All the time I could feel my strength ebbing away and my senses sliding into darkness.’

‘And yet you managed to batter at the door,’ said Mr Chance, a slight note of scepticism in his voice.

He shook his head. ‘I have no memory of that. I am surprised I could even lift my arm.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘And then I opened my eyes and found myself here.’

He looked around the room. We watched the realisation dawn. ‘The Ordeal . . .’

‘Is not important right now,’ said Mrs Harewood, firmly.

‘Is not important at all,’ said Markham. ‘You will want to take legal advice, of course, but I don’t think anyone is going to quibble over this year’s Ordeal. You’ll get a free pass, I think.’

Mrs Harewood twisted to look at him. ‘Who are you? Really.’

‘He’s my brother’s manservant and we’re all perfectly normal people,’ I said, telling one of the biggest lies of my career. ‘We are exactly who we claim to be. Chance passers-by. My brother sustained a genuine accident and we sought shelter in your house. That we arrived tonight is only a coincidence. We have no connection in any way to your Haunted Room. Which is not haunted, by the way.’

Another untrue statement but now was not the time to mention that something had burned Henry’s arm. Something had pounded on the door.

‘But . . . but a man died in there,’ cried Mr Lillywhite. ‘I was there. I was present at the time. I saw it all. A man died without a mark on him.’

‘Except for a small but deep cut on his left arm?’

‘Yes.’

‘You said my husband had been poisoned,’ cried Mrs Harewood. ‘Is it possible his father was as well?’ A thought evidently struck her. ‘Was the poison somehow introduced through the cut on his arm?’

Mr Lillywhite appeared distraught. ‘Madam, I cannot feel that this is a conversation at which you should be present. Your distress must be overwhelming.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Harewood simply. ‘But my patience is rapidly coming to an end. Why . . . ?’

‘Ah,’ said Peterson, at the table. ‘I think we can answer that question. With your permission, of course, Mr Harewood.’ He held up the vase of spills he’d brought over from the Haunted Room.

‘What are you doing with that?’ enquired Mr Chance, sharply. ‘That is estate property. Give it to me.’

‘No,’ said Peterson. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘My dear man, I am the family solicitor. We have been with the family for decades and after the unfortunate circumstances this evening . . .’ He stopped.

‘Go on, Mr Chance.’

‘Please do not make me say this in front of Mrs Harewood.’

‘Say what?’

‘Well, I’m very sorry to have to announce this here and now and in front of everyone, but Mr Harewood has not completed the Ordeal, has he? I am, therefore, with enormous regret, unable to allow Mr Harewood to assume full control of the estate.’ He turned to Henry Harewood. ‘My dear sir, never have I been more reluctant to carry out my duty.’

‘So, to be clear,’ said Markham, interrupting him. ‘Access to the Haunted Room is by means of three different keys, and one of each is held by you, the reverend and Mr Harewood himself.’

‘That is so,’ Lillywhite said, puzzled. ‘So no one person can access the room. Not on his own.’

‘That is correct,’ said Chance. ‘That is how the Ordeal was designed. No one person can access the room and every part of the Ordeal must be confirmed by at least two independent witnesses.’

‘And no one can gain entry between the Ordeals?’

The reverend shook his head. ‘No, it is always kept locked.’

Mr Chance was impatient. ‘I have said this several times. No one single person can carry out the Ordeal.’

Markham was thoughtful. ‘So, anything placed in the room during Mr Harewood senior’s Ordeal would still be there today.’

The room was suddenly very still.

Henry Harewood was struggling to rise from the sofa. ‘I don’t understand. What is this about?’

‘My dear sir,’ said Mr Lillywhite, bending over him. ‘Please do not exert yourself. You have experienced a terrible ordeal. I believe I have, on several occasions, warned of the perils of this unchristian . . .’

Harewood knocked his hand away. I had a feeling the vicar’s dining days at Harewood Hall were over with.

Peterson pulled the vase of spills towards him and looked at it. I looked at it. Markham looked at it. Everyone looked at it.

It was just a normal little vase. Cheap, white and narrow, holding around a dozen paper spills. You know what I mean. Unwanted paper, torn vertically, rolled up and used to light lamps, fires and candles. Every Victorian room had a jar of them on the mantel.

‘I don’t understand either,’ said Mrs Harewood stoutly. She left her husband to join the group around the table. ‘What is so special about this vase?’

Markham once appeared onstage at Shakespeare’s Globe theatre. He played the Ghost in Hamlet. Because he’s an actor, you know. We didn’t hear the end of it for years and years and now, just as we’d thought it was safe to go back into the water, his thespian talents were waking to a second spring. He walked slowly to the table and picked up the vase.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

And to prove it, he pulled out the spills and hurled the vase to the floor, where it smashed into pieces. Tiny fragments of china flew through the air. The maids screamed in alarm. Disappointingly, no one swooned.

Mr Chance recoiled. ‘Are you mad?’

‘The jury is still considering its verdict,’ said Markham.

‘Then why?’

‘The vase is unimportant,’ said Markham. ‘But to a dying man, trapped in a locked room with only minutes left and no means of communication, these spills were the only paper in the room.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Mr Harewood. ‘What could he have possibly wished to communicate?’

Motionless, Markham waited until every eye was upon him. The pause thundered on and on until it became almost unbearable and then . . . his big moment . . .

‘The name of his murderer.’

The word sensation didn’t even begin to cover it. For a very, very long time no one moved. No one spoke. Everyone stared at Markham. And then at the spills. And then back to Markham again.

And then, with a sudden roar, the windows blew wide open. The curtains billowed across the room, dragging themselves across a small table and sending a tray of glasses flying. A heavy gust of rain blew into the room. The decanter lay on the floor, brandy slowly seeping into the carpet.

The through draft was making doors slam in the hall outside. As if whole platoons of poltergeists were out on a pre-Christmas works outing. The reverberations caused a picture to slither down the wall and crash to the floor, evoking more shrieks and screams from everyone. We were like a haunted house on steroids.

Everyone stood frozen – whether from the shock of Markham’s pronouncement or the fear of something prowling around the house trying to get in, I couldn’t tell. I looked around the room. Everyone’s face registered shock or fear or complete incomprehension. Mrs Harewood gave a faint cry, took two paces backwards, collided with a sofa and sat down in a hurry. I didn’t blame her.

Surprisingly, Mr Lillywhite was the first to speak.

‘Nonsense,’ he said in what I assumed was his pulpit voice. ‘I have never heard such utter nonsense. This man has no idea what he is saying. Who are you to burst in here making wild accusations? I beg you, Mrs Harewood, please do not allow whoever these people may be to distress you any further after the unfortunate events of this evening. I suppose Christian duty precludes us from expelling them forthwith into this dreadful weather.’ From his expression I guessed doing his Christian duty was a bit of a struggle at the moment.

‘Speaking of which,’ I said, ‘I think we can close the windows now. Now that the fresh air has revived Mr Harewood, there is no point in the rest of us catching pneumonia.’

No one moved so I crossed the room and closed them myself, shutting out the wild night. Abruptly, the sound of wind and rain subsided. I pulled the sodden curtains across the windows for good measure and picked up the decanter. There was still a good amount left. When I looked around again still no one had moved.

Mrs Harewood swallowed. ‘Is there . . . I would like . . . no, I demand an explanation. What is happening here?’ She looked at Markham. ‘You have been very free with your accusations. Now back them up with evidence.’

Technically, it was my assignment, but now was not the moment to push myself forwards. I suspected my credibility with both the church and the law was fatally compromised anyway and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. I nodded at Markham to continue.

He looked around the room. Mr Chance still clung to his position of dominance with his back to the fire. Barnstaple and John still stood, poker-faced, at the door. The maids had clustered together in the far corner. They looked terrified but I bet wild horses couldn’t have dragged them out of this room. The Reverend Lillywhite had taken refuge behind the sofa. Whether to protect the Harewoods or himself was not clear.

Markham cleared his throat. ‘Let us proceed traditionally and begin at the beginning. Mr Harewood senior did not survive the Ordeal of the Haunted Room. He was discovered dead, and I’ve been told his face was mysteriously congested and everyone assumed a stroke or fit of some kind. There was not a mark on him apart from a small cut on his left arm, just below the elbow, which had bled but not substantially so. Certainly not enough to cause his death. I do not know if an autopsy was carried out . . . ?’

Harewood shook his head. ‘No. The scandal . . . the gossip . . . My mother died shortly afterwards. She never fully recovered. She always said everywhere she went there were looks and whispers. No one would visit us. We could barely get tradesmen to deliver.’ He tailed away.

‘That was very unfortunate,’ said Markham, ‘but I think you will agree those weren’t the only consequences of that night.’

‘No.’ He cast a look at Chance. ‘My father had failed to complete the Ordeal and his full inheritance couldn’t be released.’

Chance spread his hands. ‘My dear Mr Harewood, as I explained at the time . . .’ He gritted his teeth. ‘And several times to Mrs Harewood subsequently – my hands were tied. I had no choice.’

‘And I am assuming,’ said Markham, ‘that, as tonight, Mr Harewood’s body was removed from the Haunted Room with all speed?’

The Reverend Lillywhite nodded.

Chance flushed. ‘There was such turmoil. Such shock. We did not know what to do. There was Mrs Harewood to attend to. The doctor to summon. The maids were in hysterics. Chaos reigned and somehow . . .’

‘And the Haunted Room?’

‘Secured by Barnstaple the moment we left. In case . . .’ Chance stopped. In case anything escaped were the words not spoken.

‘Never mind that now,’ said Mr Harewood, turning to Markham and Peterson. ‘You said my father was murdered. Who? Who murdered him? I demand you tell me immediately.’

Lillywhite drew himself up. ‘This is preposterous. I cannot think what these people could possibly be suggesting.’

‘I am suggesting,’ said Peterson and suddenly his tone was not so pleasant, ‘that Mr Harewood senior was a man of courage and resource. Realising he was dying . . . realising who had killed him and why . . . he improvised. Recognising he had only seconds of life remaining to him, it was vital he convey the identity of his murderer to the world. He had nothing upon which to write until his eye alighted on the spills so close to hand. He broke a glass, nicked his arm and inscribed the name of his killer, in his own blood, on one of the spills we see here tonight and, in his dying seconds, replaced it in the vase on the mantel.

He took a breath. ‘Mr Harewood, the name of the person who killed your father has been sitting, undiscovered, in the Haunted Room since the last Ordeal. Unknown to anyone. Even the murderer.’

Chance stared at the spills in Markham’s hand. ‘Are you saying . . . ?’

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 simply 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 understand 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.’

He closed his eyes.

‘I’m afraid, sir, our actions have had the most enormous ramifications.’

He did not groan because he was Dr Bairstow, but I could see it was close.

I pressed on. ‘According to my information, Henry Harewood served with distinction in WW1. As did his son, Jamie, who became a major in the Glosters. Both of them survived the conflict. And, as you can see, Mrs Harewood wasn’t idle, either. She opened Harewood Hall as a nursing home for wounded soldiers and airmen. She became a competent and efficient nurse who almost certainly saved several of her patients’ lives. Her daughter, Jennifer Harewood, married one of them. And if you look, sir . . .’

He opened his eyes.

I twirled the data stack. ‘Jennifer’s daughter, Harriet, was parachuted into France in 1943.’

He closed his eyes again – as if the axe might fall at any moment. ‘Again, Dr Maxwell – with this sort of impact on the timeline – how are any of you still alive?’

I paused. Because now it was time for the biggie.

‘It gets even worse, sir. Harriet’s great-great-great-greatish granddaughter fought in the Civil Uprisings.’

‘Forgive my asking, Dr Maxwell, but how do you imagine this information is making things any better?’

‘I suspect you may be worrying unnecessarily, and as a conscientious employee, it is my duty to alleviate your anxiety, sir.’

‘Given your anticipated abbreviated life expectancy, Dr Maxwell, may I urge you to get to the point.’

I beamed.

‘The thing is, sir . . .’

He sighed. ‘Ah – another phrase that never bodes well. I am beginning to wonder if I was perhaps a trifle over-optimistic in authorising this month’s wages bill. It seems unlikely any of us will live long enough to collect it.’

Markham spoke up. ‘She was a pilot, sir.’

‘My concern over whether we shall live long enough to get to the point has led me to lose track somewhat. Of whom are we speaking now?’

‘Harriet’s great-great-great-greatish granddaughter, sir.’

‘The pilot.’

He nodded. ‘That’s the one, sir.’

He sighed again. ‘And what of this pilot?’

I looked out of the window. The setting sun streamed through the windows, making my eyes water. In my mind’s eye I saw it as Mrs Mack had described it. Coming fast and low, out of the sun, hanging in the sky, big and black in its own shimmering heat haze, rockets armed and ready, massive rotors chopping the Thames and flinging spray about as it hung over Barricade Bridge, waiting to end everything. The piloted, helmeted and anonymous. No one ever knew who she was. And then, unaccountably – pulling up and disappearing back into the sun. The moment that changed everything.

I hit him with the punchline.

‘She flew Leviathans, sir. In the Civil Uprisings.’

His office was suddenly very quiet.

He sat for a moment, then turned and stared out of the window as I had done, perhaps seeing what I had seen, remembering as I remembered, and then reached out his hand and flattened the data stack.

‘It would seem, Dr Maxwell, that no good deed ever goes unrewarded.’

‘I like to think so, sir.’

‘In that case, I feel I may – cautiously – resume my plans for next week.’

‘If we are all spared, sir.’

‘Thank you, everyone. I think that will be all.’

A Merry Christmas from St Mary’s and a peaceful and prosperous New Year.

THE END

Author’s Note

I wrote this St Mary’s short story and then, about three months later, in the middle of the night, I had one of those moments. I got out of bed and firkled around my bookshelves for my ancient copy of Hag’s Nook – a wonderful detective story by John Dickson Carr. I couldn’t find it anywhere, which, since it’s a tiny flat, was annoying. I bought another copy, read it through and realised there are some echoes of his classic tale in my own.

My first instinct was to pull the St Mary’s story and put the whole thing down to being a general disaster magnet. However, John Dickson Carr is a great literary hero of mine and so I’d like to present this year’s St Mary’s Christmas escapade as an homage to him and his amazing locked-room stories. (Also, as my agent, editor and daytime-self pointed out, the similarities between the two are nowhere near as great as I imagined at three o’clock in the morning . . .)

Thanks to Nigel the Chemist, who was very helpful about the best way of killing someone in 1895 and getting away with it. And knew how long it would take. And knew all about writing your murderer’s name in blood. Another one who has to delete his browser history on a regular basis.

Acknowledgements

Thanks as always to everyone at Headline for their support and assistance. Special thanks to my editors, Frankie and Bea, for all their reassurance and hard work.

Thanks to my agent, Hazel, who keeps me on the straight and narrow. If I know what’s good for me.

Massive thanks to everyone who buys my books – you are hugely appreciated.

We hope you enjoyed reading The Ordeal of the Haunted Room.

Read on for a preview from the next instalment in Jodi Taylor’s much-loved CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series . . .

I’d forgotten how cold it can be just before dawn. And quite dark, too. On the other hand, I’ve been clandestinely creeping around St Mary’s since the moment I arrived all those years ago. I know every twist and turn. Every creaking door. Every squeaky board. As long as Professor Rapson hadn’t carelessly left any half-constructed bear traps or acid baths around the place, I didn’t even need a torch.

I ghosted around the gallery and down the stairs, carefully keeping to the edges to minimise the creaks, although the whole edifice does tend to groan like a clipper in a strong wind whether anyone was standing on it or not.

The Great Hall was no problem. I could weave my way in and out of whiteboards, trestle tables, chairs, stools, piles of files, whatever, with my eyes closed. And frequently had.

I passed silently through the vestibule. The front doors were already unbolted. Easing my way through, I paused to zip up my body warmer. The morning was cold, dank and silent. It was lighter outside, although, sensibly, even the birds weren’t up yet. Moisture beaded every surface. Tendrils of light fog drifted across from the lake. Perfect conditions for a discreet getaway.

The car stood ready and waiting – a small family hatchback of an indeterminate grey colour. There must be millions of them around. You can’t avoid CCTV cameras completely, of course, but I would bet any money Leon had stowed a couple of alternative registration plates in the boot. I love that people think he’s so respectable.

I skipped down the steps, my frosty breath billowing and making substantial contributions to the fog and general non-visibility around me. Actually, skipped is the wrong word. Skipped implies light-hearted, joyful, carefree and so on, and I wasn’t any of those. People do leave St Mary’s. Sometimes under quite happy circumstances. But not today. Today was not a happy day.

Leon loomed up out of the fog. Very visible in his orange techie jumpsuit.

I tilted my head to one side. ‘You do know this is a stealth assignment, don’t you? Short of attaching an SAR beacon, is there any way you could be more obvious?’

He put his arm around me because I was just putting on a brave face and we both knew it. I asked him if everything was ready.

He nodded. ‘It is.’

I paused.

He said, ‘It’s time, Max.’

‘I know,’ I said, staring at my feet. ‘I know. It’s just . . .’

‘I know,’ he said, rubbing my shoulder. ‘But the moment has come to say goodbye.’

I nodded. No putting it off any longer. Leon shut the boot and I walked around the car.

The St Mary’s crew are off on their next adventure in

ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE

Coming April 2021 . . .

It’s time, Max.

And so, a whole new chapter opens up . . .

It’s long been known that if a thing can go wrong, it will. With knobs on, usually. Disasters start to pile up. A new colleague with no respect for the past and a great deal to prove. Historians lost in time. And – worst of all – Rosie Lee on her very first jump. Then there’s the small matter of Max’s dishonourable discharge.

From Tudor England to the Tower of Babel – it’s all going horribly wrong.

Jobless and homeless, Max receives an offer she can’t refuse. Another time, another place. A refuge, perhaps.

She’s got that wrong, too.

Available to pre-order

THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S SERIES GUIDE

Don’t know where to start with Jodi Taylor’s CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series? Never fear! We know timelines are a tricky business, so we’ve created a go-to guide to help you navigate the series and make the most of your adventure with the tea-soaked disaster magnets of St Mary’s as they hurtle their way around History.

JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of History lay before you . . . where would you go? What would you like to witness?

Recruited by the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, Madeleine Maxwell discovers the historians there don’t just study the past – they revisit it. But one wrong move and History will fight back – to the death. And she soon discovers it’s not just History she’s fighting . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I never meant to write a bestseller. I just wanted to see if I had the mental discipline to write a book. I have to say no one was more surprised than me that the answer was yes. The only thing that surprised me more was that it did so well. I’m continually amazed that historians and physicists don’t spit on me in the streets. Although give them time.’

Available to download

A SYMPHONY OF ECHOES

Wherever the historians go, chaos is sure to follow . . .

Dispatched to Victorian London to seek out Jack the Ripper, things go badly wrong when he finds the St Mary’s historians first. Stalked through the fog-shrouded streets of Whitechapel, Max is soon running for her life. Again.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the Jack the Ripper story! I frightened myself to death over this one. And it’s got dodos as well.’

Available to download

WHEN A CHILD IS BORN – a short story

It’s Christmas Day 1066 and a team from St Mary’s is going to witness the coronation of William the Conqueror. Or so they think . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Christmas was coming and the decree came down from above. “It’s Christmas, Taylor – we need a short story. Don’t just sit there.” So I didn’t. I think my publishers would like me to point out I’m not usually so obedient. Not unless electrodes are involved.’

Available to download

A SECOND CHANCE

I could have been a bomb-disposal expert, or a volunteer for the Mars mission, or a firefighter, something safe and sensible. But, no, I had to be an historian.

It began well. A successful assignment to 17th-century Cambridge to meet Isaac Newton, and another to witness the historic events at The Gates of Grief. So far so good.

But then came the long-awaited jump to the Trojan War that changed everything. And for Max, nothing will ever be the same again.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This one was fun. I really enjoyed writing this one. St Mary’s really goes through it. Heh heh heh.’

Available to download

ROMAN HOLIDAY – a short story

Question: What sort of idiot installs his mistress in his wife’s house? Especially when that mistress is Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, Queen of Egypt and the most notorious woman of her time?

Answer: Julius Caesar – poised to become King of Rome. Or as good as.

Question: At this potentially sensitive point in your political manoeuvrings, who are the last people you’d want crashing through the door, observing, recording, documenting  . . .?

I think we all know the answer to that one.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the embarrassing one. I wrote it because I couldn’t work out how to operate the door in my offspring’s flat, so I was trapped. All day. I wrote almost the whole story in one day. Ten thousand words, people! And everyone laughed at my predicament because children today have no respect for their elders.’

Available to download

A TRAIL THROUGH TIME

Sometimes, surviving is all you have left.

From a 17th-century Frost Fair to Ancient Egypt; from Pompeii to 8th-century Scandinavia; Max and Leon are pursued up and down the timeline, playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek, until finally they’re forced to take refuge at St Mary’s where a new danger awaits them.

Max’s happily ever after is going to have to wait a while . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I really didn’t think people would like this one but it’s turned out to be many people’s favourite so, like Jon Snow – I know nothing.’

Available to download

CHRISTMAS PRESENT – a short story

It’s Christmas Eve at St Mary’s

And all through the house

Nothing is stirring . . .

Except for Max, Peterson and Markham, sneaking out at midnight for an assignment that is very definitely off the books.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I was a bit worried because this story was supposed to be a Christmas story and it was all about Boudicca sacking Colchester, so I tried to keep the nasty bits to a minimum. It’s the one where Bashford waves to Boudicca because, well – why wouldn’t you?’

Available to download

NO TIME LIKE THE PAST

A Fete Worse Than Death . . .

The St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research has finally recovered from its wounds and it’s business as usual for those rascals in the History Department and Max must struggle to get History back on track.

But first, they must get through the St Mary’s Fete – which is sure to end badly for everyone.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I wanted St Mary’s to have an open day. The phrase “A Fete worse than death” shot into my head – trust me, there’s plenty of room – and I just had to write it.’

Available to download

THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING – a short story

Ever wondered how the St Mary’s of the future came to be?

Warning: this story may contain scenes about stolen furniture, a practical demonstration at the Stirrup Charge at Waterloo, students’ alcohol-ridden urine, a widowed urban guerrilla, a young man wearing exciting knitwear, and four naked security guards.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I think I’d written more than four or five books before I wrote this prequel. I don’t know why I was suddenly overwhelmed by a need to go back to the beginning but I did. Normally my overwhelming needs involve chocolate. I always say to people – don’t read this one first. Get a couple of books under your belt first otherwise some of it might not make sense. Which assumes the rest of it does . . .’

Available to download

WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

To do what I do – go where I go – see what I see – it’s a wonderful, unique, never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege.

With great privilege comes great responsibility, something Max knows only too well, and as newly appointed Chief Training Officer at the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, it’s up to her to drum this guiding principle into her five new recruits.

Expect a training programme that includes Joan of Arc, an illegal mammoth, a duplicitous Father of History, a bombed rat, Stone Age hunters and Dick the Turd.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘My personal favourite. I’ve been a training officer. I’ve been in that particular hell. I’ve questioned my life choices, my sanity and the intelligence of trainees. On the other hand, there was the episode of the bombed rat.’

Available to download

SHIPS AND STINGS AND WEDDING RINGS – a short story

It’s Christmas at St Mary’s and time for Max’s obligatory illegal jump. On this occasion, however, they’re right up against it. And as if that’s not enough, someone (Max) has inadvertently poisoned Mr Markham.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is what happened when I was bored and there wasn’t anything on TV and I was reduced to reading the small print on a can of WD40.’

Available to download

LIES, DAMNED LIES, AND HISTORY

I’ve done some stupid things in my time. I’ve been reckless. I’ve broken a few rules. But never before have I ruined so many lives or left such a trail of destruction behind me.

Max has never been one for rules. They tend to happen to other people. But this time she’s gone too far. And everyone at St Mary’s is paying the price.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I wrote this one to avenge myself on my brother who abandoned me on top of Doward Hill because there was a cow on the horizon. It was the size of a dachshund but apparently had a nasty look in its eye. He said. I didn’t get time to argue because he was off. Normally I’d let him go but he had the car keys.’

Available to download

THE GREAT ST MARY’S DAY OUT – a short story

Astonishingly, Dr Bairstow has declared a holiday. Even more astonishingly – he’s paying for it.

Needless to say, there are strings attached. They have to record the 1601 performance of Hamlet, with Shakespeare himself in the role of the Ghost.

It doesn’t go well, of course. With Dr Bairstow and Mrs Mack turning a simple visit to a street market into a public brawl, Professor Rapson inadvertently stowing away on a vessel bound for the New World, and Shakespeare himself going up in flames, it would seem that Max, of all people, is the only one actually completing the assignment.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I challenged myself to get the words “Dr Bairstow” and “selfie” in the same sentence. Challenge accepted!’

Available to download

MY NAME IS MARKHAM – a short story

Like a smaller and much scruffier Greta Garbo – finally – Markham speaks!

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the one told by Markham himself. I wanted to give a tiny but tantalising glimpse of his background.’

Available to download

AND THE REST IS HISTORY

Because, my dear Max, you dance on the edge of darkness  . . . and I don’t think it would take very much for you to dance my way.

When an old enemy appears out of nowhere with an astonishing proposition for Max – a proposition that could change everything – Max is tempted. Very tempted.

With an end to an old conflict finally in sight, it looks as if St Mary’s problems are over with. Can they all now live happily ever after?

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Ah! The dramatic one. Probably best if I don’t say any more.’

Available to download

DESSICATED WATER – a short story

Professor Rapson breaks astonishing new ground with his latest feat of scientific invention.

MARKHAM AND THE ANAL PROBING – a short story

When Markham disappears in the middle of nowhere, Max jumps to the logical conclusion – alien abduction.

A PERFECT STORM – a short story

For Max, what starts off as a perfectly normal week is about to degenerate into a quagmire of egotistical film producers, monumental pub crawls, unsigned contracts, exploding rocks, Professor Rapson and his megaphone, the world’s biggest bacon butty – and Angus – the third component of the most notorious love triangle since Menelaus, Paris and Whatshername – the one with the face they launched ships off.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Oh yes. Calvin Cutter – bless him. His one-sided telephone call to Marge, his PA, as she’s trying to have her baby in peace was so much fun to write.’

Available to download

CHRISTMAS PAST – a short story

The First Farrell Family Christmas.

Max, Leon and Matthew – together at last for Christmas at St Mary’s – a time of conspicuous consumption, riotous misbehaviour and the traditional illegal Christmas jump. And this time, it’s inter-generational.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘The one where Matthew and Max take their first steps towards an understanding. The king-sized picnic they take to the starving boys was personally researched by me. I don’t think anyone realises quite how many sausages authors must force down for the sake of verisimilitude. A little more sympathy, please.’

Available to download

AN ARGUMENTATION OF HISTORIANS

They say you shouldn’t push your luck. Max gives her own luck a massive shove every day – and it’s only a matter of time until luck pushes back . . .

January 1536 – the day of Henry VIII’s infamous jousting accident. Historians from St Mary’s are there in force, recording and documenting. And, arguing – obviously.

A chance meeting between Max and the Time Police leads to a plan of action to bring down Clive Ronan, once and for all.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Well, obviously, once I discovered the collective noun for a group of historians was an argumentation, there was no holding me back. Sorry!’

Available to download

THE BATTERSEA BARICADES – a short story

It’s not easy being a rebel.

So many new skills to assimilate.

Never mind strategic planning, weapons expertise and the like – there’s bicycle-stealing, oil-stain removal and boat steering to be mastered first. And quickly.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I’ve had people accusing me of being able to see the future but I swear I can’t. I made it all up. I suspect politicians are now lining up to spit on me in the streets.’

Available to download

THE STEAM-PUMP JUMP – a short story

Not one to let being banged up in Sick Bay stop her, Max has had a brilliant idea. But she needs Markham to execute it on her behalf. Told in Markham’s own words, this is the story of an intervention – St Mary’s style.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the one set in Raglan Castle which I visited with my brother. The purpose of our visit was to discover where the steam-pump was installed. There was a certain amount – actually, a huge amount – of arguing. We waved our arms and shouted. I had to remind him of all the times he’d been wrong throughout his life and it took a long time. People moved away from us. I googled it when I got home and discovered we’d both been wrong. Quite embarrassing actually.’

Available to download

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT – a short story

Here’s a question for you. What’s the most exciting thing ever found in a fire bucket? And don’t say ‘fire’ because you’ll be wrong.

Every Christmas, for reasons which seem good at the time – especially after an eggnog or two – Max and the others leap into the nearest pod and indulge in their illegal Christmas jump. It’s a tradition. This year, however, just to be different, they find themselves part of someone else’s illegal Christmas jump. It’s time to don a spacesuit and bring your own urine!

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I actually wanted to write this one years ago. It’s why I kept mentioning the Mars Project every now and then. And I wanted to do something completely different.’

Available to download

HOPE FOR THE BEST

You can’t change History. History doesn’t like it. There are always consequences.

Max is no stranger to taking matters into her own hands. Especially when she’s had A Brilliant Idea. Yes, it will mean breaking a few rules, but – as Max always says – they’re not her rules.

When History goes rogue, there’s a St Mary’s team right in the firing line and Max must step up.

You know what they say. Hope for the best. But plan for the worst.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘So I rang the offspring and said, “What do you know about sex clubs?” and was pleased/horrified/surprised/disturbed to find out he knew quite a lot. Hmm . . .’

Available to download

WHEN DID YOU LAST SEE YOUR FATHER? – a short story

Max, your father is here. He’s come to take Matthew away.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if Max’s husband met Max’s father? What would Leon do? This is the story of what to expect if St Mary’s doesn’t like someone. As in, really doesn’t like someone. It is also a story of revenge. Because this is payback – St Mary’s style.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the one that kept me up all night, writing. It was quite a job devising a solution in which no one died and nothing caught fire – St Mary’s usual method of conflict resolution.’

Available to download

WHY IS NOTHING EVER SIMPLE? – a short story

It’s Christmas at St Mary’s and time for the traditional illicit jump. Except this one is perfectly legal. It’s Major Guthrie’s last jump. To the Battle of Bannockburn, no less. An important moment in History for two nations - one that warrants everyone’s full attention.

But Max soon finds herself grappling with a near-lethal game of pooh sticks, another avian incursion and two turbulent teenagers’ intent on piloting their own illegal jump. And that’s all before they even get near fourteenth-century Scotland.

For this is St Mary’s and nothing is ever simple . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Well, this one didn’t turn out at all as I intended. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit I have no control over my writing – or even my entire life – but this one swerved off in completely unexpected directions. I suspect I’ve stored up all sorts of problems for myself in the future. Although that might be the official definition of a writer.

Available to download

PLAN FOR THE WORST

I would have trusted this man with my life. Until a couple of days ago, anyway.

You know what they say – hope for the best, but plan for the worst.

Max is quite accustomed to everything going wrong. She’s St Mary’s, after all. Disaster is her default state. But with her family reunited and a jump to Bronze Age Crete in the works, life is getting back to normal. Well, normal for St Mary’s.

And then, following one fateful night at the Tower of London, everything Max thought she knew comes crashing down around her.

Too late for plans. The worst has happened. And who can Max trust now?

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Well, when you’ve written Hope for the Best you have to follow it up with Plan for the Worst, don’t you? There’s a lot packed into this one and a number of resolutions – both good and bad. Sorry – no clues from me!’

Available to download

Psst! If you like your short stories all in one place, then these two collections are perfect for you . . .

THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT

In print for the very first time, The Long and Short of It collects eight unmissable short stories from the international bestselling Chronicles of St Mary’s series including:

When a Child is Born

Roman Holiday

Christmas Present

The Very First Damned Thing

Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

The Great St Mary’s Day Out

My Name is Markham

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘A collection of the earlier short stories. Initially we put it together in response to those who didn’t have kindles and therefore couldn’t access them.’

Available to download

LONG STORY SHORT

This collection brings together seven short stories and one special guest tale from somewhere completely different:

Christmas Past

The Battersea Barricades

The Steam-Pump Jump

And Now For Something Completely Different

When Did You Last See Your Father?

Desiccated Water

Markham and the Anal Probing

Little Donkey

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘The usual thing. The telephone rings.

“We’re putting together another collection of short stories, Taylor and your readers would appreciate you writing a new one.”

A short pause.

“Have you finished it yet?”

And it includes Little Donkey from one of my other series – Frogmorton Farm. How not to bathe a donkey.’

Available to download

Have you met the Time Police?

A long time ago in the future, the secret of time travel became known to all and the world nearly ended. There will always be idiots who want to change history.

Enter the Time Police. An all-powerful, international organisation tasked with keeping the timeline straight. At all costs.

This is the story of Jane, Luke and Matthew – the worst recruits in Time Police history. Or, very possibly, three young people who might change everything.