Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

I went through another door, finding a short corridor, and then doors to a kitchen and a storeroom. Everything looked ordered. Even the brooms looked as if they’d never swept the floors. The range cooker was cold, no food in the cupboards, no water in the pots. It looked like a home, but it was only a facsimile. No one actually lived here.

I banged open doors, calling for someone to answer, finding a boot room, complete with clean and completely unworn boots, a washroom with a dry jug and washbowl with a locked rear door.

Retracing my steps, I went quickly up the staircase and around the gallery. There were bedrooms large and small, the biggest with a great bed, curtains drawn back around a mound of covers. The pillows were all neatly placed, the beds carefully made. I found a bathroom, relatively modern compared to the washroom downstairs, and an ancient but serviceable toilet. I couldn’t imagine that the house had been built with indoor plumbing, so I assumed that this, like the additions downstairs, had been added later.

I met Blackbird and Lesley coming upstairs.

“Is there sign of anyone?” Blackbird asked me.

“Nothing,” I said. “No one lives here. There are no personal effects, no shampoo or soap in the bathrooms, no clothes in the wardrobes. It’s empty.”

“That could be to our advantage,” said Lesley, “though it’s a bit spooky. It makes you wonder what happened to everyone.”

I left them exploring the upstairs and went back down, thinking there must be somewhere that people actually spent time, and wondering whether there was a potting shed somewhere with people hiding in it.

I went back past the kitchen, through a maze of passages, into the store and found another door to the back. The door opened onto a different scene. I stood in the doorway, held back by instinct, and surveyed the room. Then I carefully closed the door and went back for the others.

I stood in the hallway and called. “Blackbird? Lesley? You better come and see this.”

Angela appeared from the great hall, Dave behind her. Blackbird and Lesley came downstairs, and I led them though to the room at the back of the house. I opened the door and went inside, standing away from the desks, careful not to disturb anything.

There were two offices, modern in style, built into what must have been an outbuilding. It was warmer than the rest of the house, probably due to better insulation. There were modern desks and office chairs, a couple of desktop computers, a small kitchen area, a notice board with leaflets and notices pinned to it — but no people.

More than that, the area showed signs of recent human presence. There were two coffee mugs on a desk, both part-full with coffee. I touched them and they were stone cold. Under a desk I pointed out a pair of men’s brown shoes that had been placed carefully and left with no sign of the owner. I jogged the mouse on a computer and the screen flashed into life, showing a spreadsheet program that had been left open. On the counter in the kitchen area there was a mug with a dry teabag in it, as if someone had been making tea, and then been called away. There was even milk in the fridge — I sniffed it, finding it on the edge of going sour.

“I thought it was spooky before,” said Lesley.

“Where are they?” I asked Blackbird. “It’s like they just vanished.”

“Maybe there was an emergency,” said Blackbird.

“Or an accident,” said Angela.

“Wouldn’t they come back to use the phone,” I suggested, pointing out the land-line on the desk. “Or just to get their shoes?”

“They might have been called away,” said Dave. “Maybe they all went outside and left the key inside — locked themselves out, maybe.”

“I don’t like it,” said Lesley, shuffling closer to Dave who placed his arm protectively around Lesley’s shoulders.

“What’s that?” asked Blackbird, pointing to the desk in the corner.

I turned to where she motioned and saw a white envelope on the desk. The words, To the New Occupier , were written on the envelope in looping script.

I picked up the envelope and passed it to Blackbird. “I guess that means you?” I said.

She smelled the envelope, then weighed it in her hand and shook it gently next to her ear, listening for what was inside. When she was satisfied, she tore one end off the envelope and extracted a piece of white paper, which she read loud.

Dear Occupier,

We are given to understand that you are the new occupier of Grey's Court and that the lease for the Trust has been revoked. This is unprecedented in our experience, but we have been assured that this is the case and that the effect is immediate. You will appreciate that these are highly unusual circumstances, and as a result we have been unable to make any preparations, especially with it being so close to Christmas. We never anticipated that the conditions in the lease would be invoked so suddenly.

We have been told that the house and everything in it is yours, and although we feel this may be open to legal challenge we are obliged to abide by the conditions of the lease, at least for the meantime. As a result, the staff have been asked to leave everything. We would also be grateful if you would look after the property the Trust has left in your care until the legal ownership of the items can be confirmed.

The house is a national treasure and I am sure you are aware that any deterioration in the condition of the property would be a loss, not only to the Trust, but to the nation as a whole. We would ask therefore that you treat it carefully and considerately.

Yours,

Cynthia Burgess

Legal Advisor, National Trust

“Does that mean the house is ours?” asked Angela.

“Perhaps,” said Blackbird. “At least they believe it. They can challenge it, and we’d need a copy of the lease to know whether there is any basis for a challenge, but it sounds like they’ve accepted the situation, at least for the meantime. We can appoint lawyers to look at it if necessary, but for now, it’s ours.”

“It explains why it’s so creepy,” said Lesley. “I was beginning to think they’d all disappeared — like a house version of the Marie Celeste.”

I wandered around the office, finding a newspaper left open, the crossword half-completed, a half-written note, an uncapped pen lying next to it. It was time to mention what was bothering me. “There is something,” I said. They all focused on me. “Do you feel it?”

They all looked at each other. Blackbird nodded slowly, “I feel it too.”

“I can’t place it,” I told her. “To begin with I thought there was a Way-node here, and maybe there is, but I can’t find it. I’ve been all around the ground floor, and I can’t see any signs of a cellar or a door leading down. Is it just me?”

“No, she said. Whatever is here is very faint. It’s like a residue, or an echo of something.”

“Do you think it is actually haunted?” asked Lesley.

Blackbird shook her head. “No. There are no ghosts, but Niall’s right. Something was here, long ago. It might explain the strange business with the lease.”

“You think that’s part of it?” I asked her.

“You have to admit, it’s an odd arrangement. I know the National Trust doesn’t own all the properties they operate, that’s not so unusual, but the business with the rose — that must be unique.”

“So what was here?” I asked.

She looked around the deserted office. “Originally? A shrine, perhaps, or maybe there was a weak Way-node here that we haven’t found. If the house is mentioned in the Domesday Book, then it’s over ten centuries old — predating the Norman conquest.” She gestured around her. “The house you see now would have been built later — it’s mainly Tudor with some late additions, but there would have been a structure prior to that, probably a smaller house. It could have been destroyed in a fire, or fell into ruin, and later rebuilt in a Tudor style. Who knows?”