There were three emails in Michael’s in-box on Monday morning. The first was from Owen Bracegirdle in the History Faculty, responding to Michael’s request for help in tracing Deadlight Hall’s past.
‘A good source would be Land Registration documents and Searches or Transfers of Title, at the Rural Council Offices,’ wrote Owen. ‘They’re publicly accessible documents, and it’s a legitimate request to look at them – particularly if the place is being chopped into flats and sold off piecemeal. Tell me you aren’t chasing spooks again – no, on second thoughts, don’t tell me that at all, because I love a good mystery, and you and Nell do seem to get into such intriguing situations.’
Michael replied suitably to Owen, then consulted his diary, and found that apart from the weekly meeting with his faculty head, he was free until late afternoon. This meant he could spend most of the morning tracing Deadlight Hall’s past. Professor Rosendale would certainly not be expecting him to spend so much time delving into the subject for him, but Michael was curious. There was something strange about the place, and he wanted to find out more. If he could uncover anything that would help or reassure the professor, all to the good.
The next email was from the photographer, who had called the previous day to take the publicity photographs of Wilberforce for the new book.
Hi Michael
Great to meet you yesterday – just love the shots we got of your fantastic rooms.
I’m sure we can get the camera stand and the light meter repaired – again, please forget about paying for that, I’ve got oodles of insurance, and if I haven’t your publishers will probably stump up the dosh, although don’t tell them I said that.
I hope Wilberforce’s tail hasn’t suffered too badly. My word, he can yowl when he’s annoyed, can’t he? And I hope you can get the curtains mended and the cushion re-stuffed.
I’ll come back early next week to photograph him properly. It would be good if you can actually get him to sit down this time. Have you thought about trank pills – most vets do them. I’m sure they’d help.
Best,
Rafe
The third email was from Michael’s editor, who was hoping to hear that the photographer had got some fabulous shots of Wilberforce.
Michael would be pleased to hear they were going to set up a separate fan page for Wilberforce on their website, inviting the cat’s many young fans to write in. Perhaps Michael might dash off a few words telling the eager young readers a little about Wilberforce’s background? A sort of potted biog, only not too potted. Around 750 words would be good. There was no real rush, but it would be nice if they could have it by midweek.
Michael sent a polite note to the photographer, and then, ignoring the claims of several essays on the metaphysical poets which were waiting for his critical attention, sat down to write a background for the fictional Wilberforce. In the event, he rather enjoyed creating several colourful ancestors, which included various piratical gentlemen, a fruity Thespian personage whom family legend credited with having written most of Shakespeare’s plays, and a Tower of London cat who had unintentionally foiled a Gunpowder Plot shortly before Guy Fawkes’ famous conspiracy. (‘And Master Wilberforce forgot to bring the matches, so the City of London and the King were saved.’)
He reread this, frowning. Were Guy Fawkes and Shakespeare too advanced for the seven- and eight-year-olds who devoured Wilberforce’s adventures? No, surely they would have heard of both gentlemen, and it would probably please a number of parents to think their offspring were picking up odd snippets of history. It would also allow the illustrators to have a field day. Michael emailed the biography to his editor before he could change his mind, and went off to his faculty meeting.
His return was greeted by the vet’s bill for de-turpentining Wilberforce, which had been brought up to his rooms by the porter on the grounds that it was marked ‘Urgent’. The porter pointed out that it was not part of his duties to hand-deliver missives, but you could not ignore an ‘Urgent’ letter, could you, so here it was, Dr Flint, and begging pardon for being so out of breath, but climbing those bloody stairs played havoc with the tubes of a morning.
‘It’s very good of you,’ said Michael, reaching for his wallet. ‘Have a drink on me to help the tubes out.’
By the time the porter had departed, his tubes considerably appeased by the tip, and Michael had recovered from astonishment at the amount requested by the vet, his editor, who had the uncanny ability of reading most things at the speed of light, had emailed again. She liked the Wilberforce biog so much she wanted him to expand the Gunpowder Plot idea, with the aim of starting a spin-off for a set of children’s historical tales. Michael could doubtless dash off one or two books on this theme, could he? Not too teachy, but underpinned by accurate historical information.
Michael wrote a cheque for the vet, smacked a stamp onto the envelope, then sent a deliberately non-committal email to his editor, saying he thought the Gunpowder Plot book was a very good idea.
These annoying interludes and interruptions dealt with, he set off for the Rural Council offices, encountering the Bursar as he crossed the quad, and spending ten minutes listening to the Bursar’s discourse on the unreliable nature of modern workmen. The decorators, it appeared, could not finish the painting that day as arranged, because they’d had to order an extra twenty litres of paint which would not arrive until Thursday. College would therefore have to continue in its present dust-sheet and stepladder disarray for at least another week. The Bursar found it all very annoying and did not know what things were coming to if a firm of decorators could not calculate how much paint was needed for a few perfectly ordinary stairways.
Michael’s request at the Rural Council offices for a sight of the Deadlight Hall records was received as an everyday occurrence. Certainly he could be given sight of Searches and Land Registrations and Transfers, said the helpful assistant. They had had quite a few people asking to see them recently, what with the place being renovated. The records might not be as complete as they would like – there had been some bomb damage to the old Council offices during WWII – and she believed there were a number of ‘lost years’, which sounded rather romantic, didn’t it. There was, however, still a fair amount of stuff, and everything was scanned on to hard disk, all the way back to 1800. The viewing room was just through there, there was a coffee machine in the corridor, and if he needed any assistance of any kind, please to let her know.
Michael always found it vaguely wrong to use a computer screen for this kind of research. If you were going to make an expedition into the cobwebby purlieus of history, it ought to be by means of curling parchments with crabbed writing penned by long-dead monks and scribes, or through faded diaries chronicling forgotten loves and hates and wars and friendships. It had to be acknowledged, though, that computers were more efficient and a great deal faster than the parchment/diary method. Michael collected a cup of coffee from the machine, sat down at the screen, and waited for the past to open up.
At first he thought there was not going to be anything of any interest about Deadlight Hall. There was the original land purchase which showed the Hall had been built in the early 1800s, but it then seemed to vanish into what the assistant had called its ‘lost years’.
There was an apology on the home page for the incomplete state of some of the documents, and the total absence of others, but explaining that the ravages of time, not to mention mice, damp, and the attentions of the Luftwaffe, had all wrought substantial damage. The main archives department in Oxford might, however, be able to fill in any gaps.
Michael scrolled forward patiently, and was relieved to see that Deadlight Hall sprang back into being in 1877, when a worthy-sounding organization called the Breadspear Trust had acquired it. He made a note of this, and moved to the next entry, which dealt with the Trust’s obligations and administration. It seemed to have been partly governed by a philanthropically minded Mr Breadspear, and partly by the Parish and the Poor Relief Committee. He was rather intrigued to discover that the present Welfare State descended from the original Vagabond Act of the 1400s, a fearsome-sounding law that had required the arrest of vagabonds and persons suspected of living suspiciously. The legislation had apparently been repealed a great many times, and it was probably as well that an original clause requiring these hapless (or perhaps they had been merely feckless) souls to be set in the stocks, pierced through the ear, or handed the materials to build a house of correction, was no longer in force.
The next page opened up a series of letters, which had apparently been attached to the transfer of title to the Trust, and which had been scanned in as being of possible interest to students of local history. At first sight they were so indistinct as to be almost illegible, but letters were always promising, so Michael zoomed up the viewing, which helped, and began to read.
The letters commenced with the appointment of one Mrs Maria Porringer (widow of this parish), to a slightly ambiguous-sounding role at Deadlight Hall. It appeared to be a combination of housekeeper, superintendent and general factotum, and required her to be responsible for:
The well-being and moral behaviour of all children placed in Deadlight Hall … To ensure such children are brought up to be honest, sober, God-fearing and grateful … To ensure that, as soon as the said children are of sufficient age, they are sent to places of work where they must be obedient, punctual, diligent, and honest.
Remuneration to the said Mrs Maria Porringer to be as agreed and set down in correspondence with her dated the 10th day of August in the year 1878.
Signed, for and on behalf of, the Parish Council.
Augustus Breadspear, Salamander House.
Salamander House, thought Michael. Dragons and elemental fire-creatures, and a Victorian gentleman with a name that might have come from the pages of Charles Dickens.
At first sight, the documents struck a benevolent note, as if the young persons in question were being housed and schooled by kindly mentors or teachers. ‘Brought up to be honest, sober and God-fearing’ was fair enough, particularly given the era, but Michael did not like the sound of ‘grateful’. The places of work might mean apprenticeships in the old and good sense of the word – the indenturing of boys and girls to skilled masters to learn a useful trade. But the nineteenth century had had a grim habit of employing young children from poor backgrounds, and forcing them to work impossibly long hours in mills and manufactories. The literature of the time was filled with brutal places that had housed children, from Dotheboys Hall to the baby farms of Oliver Twist, and it was peppered with Mr Creakles and Daniel Quilps. All fictional places and people, but based on grim reality.
Michael scrolled on to the next set of letters.
Deadlight Hall
September 1878
My dear Mr Breadspear
Please accept my sincere thanks for confirming the appointment agreed by the Trust last month. I am most grateful for this opportunity, particularly since, as you know, Mr Porringer passed on recently. He was an apothecary, in a good way of business, but after his death the shop had to pass to a distant cousin. However, I helped with running the shop for many years, and I dealt solely with the accounts. I permitted no nonsense of any kind from staff we employed, and did not tolerate impudence or familiarity from customers. You can therefore be sure that I shall wield a firm hand within Deadlight Hall.
I suppose if Mr John Hurst from Willow Bank Farm wants to provide some lessons for the children, that will be acceptable, although it should be made clear that we have no funds for such things.
On a separate note, the other, private arrangement you propose is acceptable. Carpenters and workmen have already been engaged and given specific instructions.
Very truly yours,
Maria Porringer (Mrs)
Michael frowned at the handwriting, because he had the strong impression that he had seen it before. But each century had its own style and fashion in writing, and probably most letters from the late 1800s would have been written in the same kind of hand. He would simply be recognizing the style of that era.
He reread the last paragraph, intrigued by the mention of a ‘private arrangement’, then read on.
Deadlight Hall
September 1879
My dear Mr Breadspear
You will be glad to know that the incident last week (I wrote to you about it) has been satisfactorily resolved, and I have taken steps to ensure it cannot be repeated. You will note the locksmith’s accounts in this month’s figures. There will also be a further carpenter’s bill, for it was necessary to strengthen the door at the same time.
Mr John Hurst calls every Saturday afternoon, although I am not happy about this. Last week I asked him not to teach the children poetry and suchlike, never mind if it is Shakespeare or Lord Byron, and yet only yesterday I caught him reading some high-flown verses to them, actually describing the behaviour of devils, such ungodliness. When I challenged Mr Hurst, he had the impudence to say he was reading John Milton’s Paradise Lost to the children, and it was one of the world’s great classics.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the classics may be all very fine, but filling up children’s heads with rubbish about the drunken Sons of Belial seems most unsuitable.’
‘But,’ said the infuriating man, ‘we should always be wary of demons and devils, Mrs Porringer. Indeed, the Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs warns us against Belial in particular – it tells us that fornication separates man from God and brings him near to Belial.’
Well, Mr Breadspear, I did not know where to look for the shame of such language, and the worst of it was I believe the man was laughing at me. I have yet to meet a more impious and disrespectful person than John Hurst.
I am respectfully yours,
Maria Porringer (Mrs)
Deadlight Hall
March 1880
Dear Mr Breadspear
I am a plain-speaking woman, and I am not best pleased by our sparse financial arrangements since the start of the year. I hope I am not one to be what the Bible calls greedy of filthy lucre, but the labourer is worthy of his hire. I am quite run off my feet, what with feeding and clothing the small ones, which is something to be considered, even with the charitable donations from ladies of the parish, including Lady Buckle’s cast-offs, which usually smell of boiled cabbage and Sir George’s pipe tobacco.
In addition to all that, I now have the two Mabbley girls, who came here in January as you know. (I was not at all surprised to be asked to take those two, for we all know what kind of come-day, go-day creature Polly Mabbley is). This means a total of fourteen children in all, and a deal of hard work.
As well as that there is, of course, the other duty I am performing, which takes up a considerable amount of my time.
In the past fortnight I have had approaches from two gentlemen looking for workers for their manufactories. If better arrangements cannot be made between us, these gentlemen’s terms might suit better, and I shall have to think whether it would be advantageous to send some of the children to them (once of working age, of course) rather than to Salamander House.
I would be glad if you would oblige with an early reply.
Yours respectfully
Maria Porringer (Mrs)
Infuriatingly, this was the final letter from Maria Porringer, and the only document following it was a note of some land attached to the Hall being transferred in 1948. Michael glanced at this rather perfunctorily, and saw that the land had in fact been transferred to an S. Hurst. Might that be the same family as Jack Hurst who was renovating Deadlight Hall? And was the irreverent John Hurst referred to by Maria Porringer a forbear?
There were just two more documents relating to Deadlight Hall and, as with some of the earlier documents, they were incomplete – in fact the first was very nearly fragmentary. It seemed to relate to an inquest, but the edges were so jagged it was difficult to make out the heading. The whole thing had the appearance of having been Sellotaped together and scanned onto the computer by somebody who had probably said, ‘It isn’t much, but it’s a corner of local history, so let’s include it.’ The section bearing the name of the deceased had been torn away altogether, but the place of death was clearly stated as having been Deadlight Hall.
The verdict on the unfortunate unknown was Death by Misadventure, and a handwritten note in the ‘Cause of Death’ section simply said, ‘Unable to determine cause due to extreme and severe damage and incomplete condition of remains.’
Near the bottom was a rider from the jury, to the effect that Deadlight Hall be fenced off and secured against further mishap.
The second document was a tender for work at the Hall and although the date was blurred by time or damp, it seemed to follow from the recommendation of the Coroner’s jury. It gave an estimate of £75.12s.6d for the work required and trusted this would be acceptable.
‘Work to include disconnecting, so far as possible, all plumbing and heating outlets and all furnace vents as per our detailed list, to include labour, materials, and making good. Duration of work would be one week.’
A note had been added, explaining that it would be ‘nigh on impossible to disconnect the entire contraption on account of the plumbing being integral to the water supply as well as the hot water heating system.’
The writer had never come across such an arrangement, not in all his years as a master plumber, but it was his opinion that if you took out the whole contraption, you would very likely end up causing the collapse of the entire ground floor. He did not, therefore, recommend complete removal under any circumstances, and would not do it if fifty Coroners’ juries were to tell him to.
The Deadlight Hall documents ended with this, and there did not seem to be anything more.
Michael managed to fathom the printing procedure, and printed two copies of the inquest notes and scrappy tender, together with Maria Porringer’s letters. He would let Professor Rosendale have copies as soon as possible.
Returning to College, he was greeted by the news that Wilberforce had caught a sparrow during his morning perambulation, which he appeared to have partly eaten, before losing interest and leaving the remains in a pink suede boot belonging to a second year. The second year, who hailed from Kensington and seldom let people forget this, complained vociferously to Michael. The boots, it seemed, were Philip Plein, they had cost an absolute fortune, and Mummy and Daddy were going to be seriously furious over the entire thing.
Michael, who had never heard of Philip Plein, made a mental note to check his provenance with Nell and rather fruitlessly explained to the second year that cats only left these offerings to people they liked. The second year was having none of this. She said it was a disgrace the way flesh-eating predators preyed on poor defenceless little birds and ripped them to shreds, in fact Mummy was president of half-a-dozen wildlife societies and it so happened that the second year was currently canvassing for contributions on Mummy’s behalf.
Michael promised to invoke various insurances for the replacement of the boots, after which he signed up for a twelve-month donation to one of the wildlife societies. The second year was somewhat mollified at this, thought she would replace the pink suede, which was rather last-year, with grey, and helped Michael dispose of the corpse in one of the flower beds.
Honour being satisfied all round, Michael escaped to his rooms to immerse himself in the relative sanity of the essays on the metaphysical poets.
He put what he was already calling the Porringer letters into a drawer, ready to show to Professor Rosendale, and started to read the first of the essays which was by a particularly promising first-year student who was already showing signs of heading for a Double First, providing he could stay on track.