Shiverton Hall (16 page)

Penny opened her mouth to speak.

‘Enough!’ Long-Pitt said. ‘Get out.’

‘That went well,’ George said as they made their way out of the building.

‘I’m sorry, Arthur. You kind of took the rap for us,’ Penny said.

‘Yeah, Long-Pitt really doesn’t like you, mate,’ George said.

‘What’s her problem?’ Arthur growled. ‘There was no need for her to scream at us like that.’

‘She gets a bit snappy if she hears any, you know, ghouly stuff,’ George said. ‘Shiverton’s reputation has been quite hard to shake off.’

‘Well, thanks for letting me know that beforehand!’ Arthur cried.

‘She still should have believed us,’ George muttered.

‘Why should she?’ Arthur sighed. ‘You have to admit that it all sounds pretty insane. Why would she believe us?’

‘Because she knows it’s true,’ George said firmly.

The Lonely Child

Peter Long-Pitt was just an ordinary schoolmaster when Jenson and Bunch knocked on his front door. They were an odd pair to look at; Jenson was reed-thin and so pale as to be almost albino, while Bunch was small and round and covered all over with freckles. They wore matching grey flannel suits and grey bowler hats, which they took off as they ducked through Peter’s low doorway.

‘Long-Pitt!’ Bunch chuckled, settling himself into Peter’s best chair. ‘What a relief it is to finally meet you! We’ve been looking for you for a not inconsiderable length of time.’

Peter looked at them nervously, and called for his wife to fetch some tea.

‘Please excuse me, gentlemen,’ Peter said quietly, ‘but you say you’re solicitors? I cannot for the life of me think why you wanted to find me.’

Jenson and Bunch exchanged a glance.

‘We have come,’ Jenson said, folding his long legs into a chair, ‘with good news –’

‘Oh yes, indeed!’ Mr Bunch interrupted excitably. ‘With very good news.’

Peter’s wife, Annie, arrived with a pot of tea, looking askance at her husband.

‘Oh, I think Mrs Long-Pitt will want to stay and hear the news, don’t you, Mr Bunch?’ said Jenson.

‘I do indeed, Mr Jenson, I do indeed,’ Bunch replied, almost bouncing on his chair.

Politely Annie sat next to her husband.

‘Have you ever heard of Shiverton Hall?’ Jenson asked, leaning towards the couple with a sly wink.

‘I can’t say I have,’ Peter replied.

‘Ah! Well, there is no reason why you would have done,’ said Jenson. ‘It is quite far from here, and though it is a house of some proportion and beauty it has never quite gained the fame of Wentworth or Hardwick Hall. Still, it is a very fine house.’

‘Oh, it is a
very
fine house,’ Bunch interjected, winking at Annie.

‘Please forgive me, sir,’ Peter said, bewildered, ‘but I’m not entirely sure what this has to do with me.’

Jenson and Bunch looked at one another, wide-eyed and ebullient.

‘Would you like to inform him, Mr Bunch?’

‘No, no, dear fellow, you do the honours!’

Jenson took Annie’s hands and gathered them up in his, biting his lip dramatically. ‘You, madam, are now the mistress of Shiverton Hall!’

Peter gulped down his cup of tea in one to steady his nerves.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t quite follow you. How is it that this house has come to be in my – in our – possession?’

‘Oh, well, it has been quite a struggle!’ Bunch answered. ‘None of the previous inhabitants left a male line to speak of, and we have been trying to identify an owner for simply years. You, sir, are a distant relation of the original owner, Lord Shiverton, through your father’s cousin’s family. It took quite some detective work to track you down. Are you aware that every man in your family has come to a premature end?’

Peter immediately thought of his father, who choked to death on a piece of venison when Peter was only three.

‘Oh yes!’ Jenson said. ‘It is mysterious in the extreme. Some have called it a curse.’

Bunch kicked Jenson’s ankle, his joviality slipping for a moment.

‘Of course, such notions are ridiculous!’ Bunch said quickly.

‘Quite!’ Jenson agreed, nodding emphatically. ‘Entirely ridiculous.’

Jenson and Bunch stood up as one.

‘All that remains,’ Jenson said, ‘is to hand over the deeds.’

‘I’m indebted to you,’ Peter said weakly, ‘but I have a few questions.’

‘Certainly, dear boy,’ Jenson said, clipping open his briefcase. ‘But first you must take the deeds and we must witness your signature.’

Bunch pulled out the papers and unscrewed the lid of his pen. ‘Sign here, please,’ he said, indicating the relevant part of the papers to Peter.

‘Excuse me,’ Peter said, ‘but I feel I really must –’

‘SIGN THE DEEDS!’ Jenson and Bunch shouted in unison, all of their blustering charm gone.

Peter and Annie jumped in fright.

‘My apologies,’ Bunch said quickly, smoothing his hair over. ‘But we have travelled rather a long way, you see, and all we ask for is your signature.’

Peter sighed and looked at his wife, who smiled back at him.

‘Indeed. Then pass me the pen.’

Shiverton Hall wasn’t looking its finest when Peter and Annie Long-Pitt arrived on a drab day in early 1923. They stepped out of the cab and gaped up at the gargoyled frontage.

‘What on earth do we do with all this?’ Annie said shyly, conscious of her old, plain dress.

Inside the house was a mess; it had been used as a hospital during the Great War, and the soldiers hadn’t cleaned it up after their hasty departure. Metal beds lined every room and there were still disconcerting traces of dried blood in places. Most of the west wing was charred and damaged from a fire.

Annie shuddered. ‘It’s awfully spooky, Pete,’ she said, tracing her finger along a dusty table.

But Peter wasn’t spooked in the least – in fact, his eyes were sparkling.

‘My dear, don’t you see?’ he said. ‘Why, this would make the most tremendous school.’

Annie looked cynically at the mess and the dust and the gloom.

‘It only needs a clean. And look!’ he said, striking one of the bed frames. ‘We already have the beds!’

Luckily they had inherited, along with the house, some funds that had been part of Lord Shiverton’s estate and that had, over the many years since his death, become rather a lot of money. It was more than enough to restore the west wing and to convert the house into a school, with enough left besides to act as bursaries for those boys who had lost their fathers in the war.

The school opened in the September of 1924, the same year that Annie gave birth to their first child, Jeremy.

The school was full before it even opened because it was cheaper than most as Peter was too kind to charge exorbitant fees, conscious as he was that many war widows could hardly afford bread and jam. The boys enjoyed their time at the school, and so did Peter and Annie.

The unpleasantness with the unfortunate music teacher, Mr Coleman, could not have been foreseen. Peter was devastated by the incident, frightened that a wild animal could be roaming the estate, still posing a threat to the boys. He hired some local men to patrol the grounds at night, armed with guns, but he came to the conclusion that the guns themselves were probably more dangerous than the animal, and sent the men away after the first two nights.

There was a boy at the school called Bertie Collins, whom Peter had particularly taken under his wing. Collins was an orphan of a very sickly disposition, which made the other boys tease him. In spite of this he was good-natured, bearing the taunts stoically and pouring all of his talents into his work. At just fourteen he could read Latin, Ancient Greek, French and Italian, and he was outperforming much older boys in philosophy and arithmetic. He came to the Lodge, where the Long-Pitts had made their home, every Thursday evening for tea and cake, and additional lessons with Peter, who felt that Collins could benefit from more complex and difficult work.

Collins adored Peter, and looked forward to his Thursday evenings as the other boys looked forward to cricket. In Peter he had found the father he had never known, and Peter himself began to look on Collins as a kind of surrogate son.

One Thursday in the summer term, Collins arrived at the Lodge, white and shivering.

‘Come in, come in,’ Peter said, concerned. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

Collins shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m all right.’

Peter didn’t want to press him, so they sat down by the fire and began a lesson on Dante’s poetry.

After half an hour, Collins relaxed visibly, and was soon animatedly discussing the
Inferno
, which he had been reading in the original Italian – something that even Peter couldn’t manage.

Annie appeared and quietly set down a pound cake in front of them. Collins, still talking, leaned forward to take a slice.

‘Collins!’ Peter said, disturbed. ‘What is that?’

Peter was looking at Collins’s wrist, which was horribly bruised. Collins hastily pulled his sleeve down and blushed.

‘Please, sir, I had an accident. I . . . I shut my wrist in my desk, that’s all,’ Collins stammered.

Peter gently took Collins’s hand and pulled up his sleeve. The bruise was unquestionably not of Collins’s own doing, for it was plain to see that it was made up of purple, mottled fingermarks. Collins tried to pull back his arm.

‘Who did this?’ Peter said calmly.

‘No one, sir, I promise!’

‘Was it Bellamy? He can be a thug, I know.’

‘No! It wasn’t him!’

‘Then who?’

Collins shook his head emphatically, suddenly fearful.

‘Collins, I realise that it’s not the done thing to tell tales on your fellow students, and normally I wouldn’t encourage it, but this person has done you a serious injury. Tell me who it is and I’ll have a word with them.’

Collins fidgeted around in his chair, obviously distressed. ‘Please don’t,’ he whimpered. ‘You’ll make it worse.’

‘I very much doubt it. The next time this brute tries to hurt you, send him to me.’

Collins gasped. ‘Take that back, sir,’ he cried. ‘Take it back!’

‘I will not, Collins. Really, you must get a hold of yourself. Send the blighter to me and we’ll speak no more of it.’

Collins went as pale as the milk on the tray before them. ‘You won’t want to see him,’ he said in a terrified whisper.

‘I absolutely do,’ Peter said, slightly exasperated.

Collins slumped back in his chair and Peter realised that the boy was crying. Peter felt awful, and put an arm on the boy’s back. Collins shrugged him off violently.

‘You shouldn’t have made me tell you!’ he sobbed. ‘It’ll be my fault.’

‘What will be your fault?’ Peter asked, puzzled.

Collins looked at him accusingly through teary eyes. ‘You’ll see.’

Peter and Annie discussed the matter after Collins had fled the Lodge.

‘He’s just upset, darling,’ Annie said. ‘He’ll calm down once you find the culprit.’

Even so, Peter was unsettled. The fear in Collins seemed disproportionate; surely it was only a matter of schoolboy bullying, and Collins was usually such a sensible boy.

Later that evening, Peter was in his study looking at the following year’s scholarship applications. Annie came to tell him she was going to lie Jeremy down then go to bed herself. She kissed Peter on the head and closed the door quietly behind her.

Peter found sorting through application forms hard work because he tended to want to give all of the boys scholarships, even though this wasn’t sensible in the least financially. He worked until near two in the morning, yawning as he went over a boy called Dapping’s many achievements. Peter felt his head begin to nod and soon he was snoring quite loudly and had dribbled on poor Dapping’s essay.

There was a soft knock on the door and Peter woke with a snort.

‘Hello? What?’ he said in the confusion of half-sleep.