The Haunting of Harriet (4 page)

All that was missing was a lounge large enough to be called a drawing-room, somewhere to entertain. There were two doors left. The fourth was considerably lower than all the others but wider and made of a heavy oak, carved in scrolled panels that had over the years darkened to a dense black. The fifth was an impressive pair of doors, at least ten feet tall, leading to the main reception room. Longing to find her lounge but sticking to her clockwise routine, Liz returned to the fourth door. Harriet retreated to the shadows, her face showing displeasure and her body trembling with emotion. As Liz turned the large iron ring of the handle she experienced a distinct feeling that she was in the wrong place. The catch did not respond to her first attempt or her second. The door remained firmly closed. She moved on to the large double doors, which towered above her.

Harriet pushed them gently and the great doors swung wide. Liz had hardly touched them. “Wow!” The exclamation escaped through a wide O of a mouth that remained open long after the sound had faded. Harriet stepped aside for Liz to enter.

“This was Mama’s drawing-room. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? She loved this room because it complemented her so well. She was a very beautiful woman.” For a brief moment Harriet was a child again, sitting behind the banisters with her brother watching as the guests arrived. The miscellaneous perfumes and the sound of servants bearing trays of tinkling glasses, musicians tuning up, the jazz and the colours all brought back a longing for a childhood that never really happened. As a child she assumed a mother’s duty was to look beautiful and throw parties. That was all, and as such her Mama was brilliant. Her mother’s lust for life was prodigious and her propensity for entertaining boundless. She was always giving parties, always extravagant affairs, to the delight of her guests. At these events Harriet’s mother, Alice, would circulate, ensuring she took centre-stage. Meanwhile her father, George, having mingled enough for politeness’ sake, would retire to his study, leaving Alice’s vivacity to carry her from guest to guest: a bewitching butterfly, leaving a trail of smiling, happily flattered people in her wake. There was always a young man to hand should her cigarette need lighting. Another was ready to serve when a cushion needed to be placed in the small of her back as she arranged herself on the
chaise longue
, while engaging yet some other young man in conversation. With some of them she would touch hands briefly as they happened to pass, and sly smiles would be exchanged discreetly, indicating the sharing of a delicious secret.

The parties became famous. Beckmans was “the place” to meet people and to be seen doing so. Music always featured, a small jazz band by the boathouse, a dance combo on the terrace or the piano playing in the drawing-room with Alice singing Cole Porter or Noel Coward. Harriet would peek through the French windows to watch her lovely Mama, her left arm resting on the Spanish shawl that protected the rosewood piano, her emerald ring glistening on her long, slim finger, as she sang and flirted shamelessly with all the men. The couple’s popularity grew, not merely because of their splendid hospitality, but because they were “good sorts”. Throughout those carefree days before the war they, or rather she, entertained, lavishly and generously. She loved company and loved being admired, as did the house.

Liz remembered the agent’s leaflet had boasted a grand drawing-room measuring thirty-four feet square and had mentioned elegance and grandeur in the blurb but it had failed to convey the perfection of this room. It was Georgian architecture at its most graceful. Ignoring the four sorry lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling, Liz saw opulent crystal chandeliers scattering the flames of a hundred candles. The plaster roses and cornicing were missing but they could be replaced. As Liz gazed up, her feet instinctively took her across the room to the heavy shutters covering the tall windows. She pulled them back and the western sun streamed in. It fell in shafts that sent the resident dust dancing and whirling in suspension. Freeing the shutters on the south-facing windows allowed their light to flood in and puddle on the bare floorboards. Liz’s feet performed a crazy quickstep to an unheard band. Harriet closed her eyes as she guided her partner and together they joined the past. With each turn and twist the two dancers saw the white-veined marble of the handsome fireplace, flames dancing around the orchard logs. Harriet saw them both reflected in the large mirror that hung above the mantle. Liz saw only a darkened patch where a mirror had once hung. The shadow of a grand piano stood in the centre of the sprung floor, its melody spinning in the air along with the dust. Angostura and gin perfumed the atmosphere and the brush of silk chiffon touched her skin as she danced.

Liz danced back to the French windows, where Harriet was now standing, and pressed her face against the cold glass. The lake shimmered in the distance and the soft outline of a building caught her breath. A gothic apparition standing at the water‘s edge; the boathouse was waiting. As she watched, the light began to change until all that remained was a silhouette against the early setting sun. Checking her watch she gasped; it had already gone four o’clock. How long had she been standing there? She still had another room to see and had not even touched the gardens, with the lake and that tantalizing folly. She had entered a forgotten world. She spun around for the last time and gently drew the doors behind her. Again there was the faintest hint of a forgotten perfume, the aroma of cocktail cigarettes; the smoke from their scented tobacco curling up to the high ceiling as it spiralled and reeled with her senses, and cobwebs brushed her cheek with the delicacy of a feather boa. Reluctant to lose her dream, she rested her back against the towering doors. Her senses had never felt so alive and there was still the Fourth Room left to explore.

Edward nudged her arm. He was recharging the glasses and she swigged hers back greedily before holding it out for a refill. Taking her champagne with her she closed her eyes and stood tall. She moved away from the great doors. She remembered her feeling of urgency, the need to get a move on. It was getting late. In a business-like manner she crossed the hall and returned to the heavy door of the elusive Fourth Room. It was covered in thick sticky cobwebs encrusted with dust and the remains of the victims caught in their lethal traps. Spiders did not bother Liz so she reached through and twisted the iron ring, pushing against the door at the same time. It did not budge. Taking the ring in both hands she pushed hard.

“You can’t go in there. It’s private. I keep it locked.” Harriet hissed the words at Liz, who was busy studying her bunch of keys.

“Well, I can be as stubborn as you,” she shouted as she hurled herself at the door. It did not give an inch but her shoulder hurt. The door might be locked but she had the keys. The front door, back door, garden door and cellar door were all clearly labelled. The lounge, dining-room, inner hall, master bedroom, the attic: each had a key; even the boathouse had one. This room had no name and no key. Was it just a cupboard? Where was that damned leaflet from the agent? Harriet lifted the paper from Liz’s bag and secured it in her own pocket, watching as the young woman rummaged frantically in her black hole of a handbag. In final desperation Liz tipped the entire contents onto the floor, before turning out the pockets of her coat. She had lost it.

“God, I’m such an idiot!”

Remorse made Harriet blush. This was not the way to encourage this young woman to feel at home. “I do apologize. That was extremely discourteous of me. Here, let me show you.”

Liz returned to the breakfast-room, where her hand reached up to a concealed ledge above the garden door. Tucked at the back of the ledge was a large iron key. It was at least eight inches in length and the head was wrought in the shape of a fabulous beast. She approached the door again. Harriet closed her eyes and sighed. She had of course promised the house would hold no secrets for Liz but she had not reckoned with this. Both their hearts were beating fast and Liz’s hand shook as she offered the key to the lock. The tumblers turned with a heavy unwillingness. Strands of cobwebs grabbed at her face. They stuck to her coat and her gloves, clinging the tighter as she attempted to brush them away. The sticky threads mixed with her hair and a gossamer veil covered her face. She was cold and frightened. She shook her head in a frantic attempt to rid herself of the hideous stuff. She was beginning to panic.

Mel was standing beside her friend, watching her beat the air with flaying arms, fighting frantically as though her life depended on it. “What on earth is the matter?” Mel took Liz’s arm, holding it still. “God, you’re frozen. Here, take this. I’m warm as toast.” She placed the shawl around her friend’s shoulders. Mad Mel was Liz’s dearest friend, wild and impetuous, her head surrounded by clouds of magenta curls; an eccentric in touch with angels and spirits, in complete contrast to cool, smooth Liz. Mel was never further than a handbag away from her Tarot cards. Irreverent about all matters religious and with a wicked lust for life, Mel stuck two fingers up to the establishment and went with the flow. Liz adored her. Mel filled Liz’s life with colour. But tonight even her closest friend could not persuade Liz to abandon her memories. She continued brushing vigorously at her hair, her glass spilling its contents as she did so. She muttered some words of thanks and pulled the borrowed wrap closer around her but it did nothing to prevent the chill that gripped her. She closed her eyes, ignored her friend and embraced the cold.

Calming herself with deep breaths, she reluctantly entered the fourth and final room. Harriet remained outside. She did not have on her side the courage that came from ignorance. Covering her eyes with her cloak she waited for the young woman to return to her. The warmth of welcome had gone and it was as an intruder that Liz entered. Two steep wooden steps took her by surprise and as she ducked low to avoid hitting her head on the door frame she stumbled. It was dark and her eyes took time adjusting to the change in light. The room’s only window was boarded up, letting only a thin inadequate glimmer enter the gloom. Cold and uncomfortable, Liz fumbled around feeling for a light switch. What an idiot to go house-hunting in late October without a torch. Slowly her hand inched along the wall until she found one. She flicked it, nothing happened. She flicked it again and it crashed to the ground leaving its lethal old wires reaching out. Liz was freezing by now. Her resolve was leaving her. It was getting late and she wanted to catch the estate agents before they closed. Anyway, she ought to get those keys back. It was time to leave. Something stronger than fear was pushing her, directing her back to the hall and she was in no mood to stay and find out what it was.

Anxious to get back out her foot slipped on the top step then as she reached out to save herself from falling the heavy door slammed shut, barring her exit and blocking out the only real source of light. Blinded by panic and tears she scrambled about in the dark convinced she would be locked in this awful place forever. Harriet reached out opening the door from the outside. How could she have been so unkind slamming it shut like that! She twisted the handle, just as Liz discovered the clasp. Together they managed to turn it and force the door to release her. Liz fell through the opening, landing back in the hall. Shaking and gasping for air, her eyes closed tight, Liz crouched like a baby scared of what might face her when she opened them. Bending forward, Harriet kissed her softly and whispered an apology in her ear.