Arnie Jenks and the House of Strangers (7 page)

Upon reaching the hall, Arnie and Mr Silverthorne turned left and walked into the long corridor before slowing to stop outside a room.

Inside, dust billowed around the entrance as Mr Silverthorne searched for a light switch. He hesitated for a while before moving to a shelf too high up for Arnie to reach. He ran his hand along the spines of a thin set of brown ledgers that were dated by year.

‘1900 wasn't it?' he said, selecting a volume and blowing away some surface grime. He gently handled the pages until he found the entry he was looking for.

‘What were the names you recall?' he asked, running his eyes along the neat lines of writing.

‘Mr Dawson, the butler, Emily Buck, the parlour maid, the cook was called…Mrs Bowers, the chauffeur was a Mr Fellows, a boy called Robert and there were two other girls; Lily and Sarah. I think. Oh, and a girl who was sick in bed – can't remember her name.'

The solicitor stopped reading and drew a finger to his lips. ‘And all for the princely sum of £180 a year.'

‘What is?'

‘The wage bill for the domestic servants employed by the household back then – they all seem to be accounted for here as you say.'

‘So you see!' said Arnie ‘It's all true!'

‘Well, what you are telling me is what it says here – but it doesn't prove that you met them. I'm sure there are other ways of finding out this sort of information. It is not exactly “Top Secret” intelligence,' Mr Silverthorne emphasised with a stab of his glasses.

‘I
did
meet them,' said Arnie emphatically, ‘these
“ghosts”
are just as real as, well…you!' He gasped and gripped the sides of his chair tight.

‘Mmm?' said Mr Silverthorne, raising his eyebrows.

‘Um…what I'm wondering is…um…well…'

‘Come on – out with it young man. It's not like you to be lost for words. What is it?'

Arnie felt a little scared. ‘Um…I'm not sure I know how to say it…' he struggled.

‘You can tell me,' said Mr Silverthorne reassuringly. ‘I won't bite.'

‘Are
you
a ghost too?' Arnie spluttered.

‘Well, it's possible I suppose,' he suggested, rubbing his chin.

‘Really?' said Arnie, his eyes widening.

‘But then why is my hair getting thinner and my eyesight failing?' Mr Silverthorne mused. ‘Also ghosts don't need to eat or drink I believe. My stomach would be the first to complain about that.'

‘OK, fine – I get it,' said Arnie. ‘Silly idea – sorry!' he gabbled, waving the thought away with his hand.

‘Right then – moving along for now,' said Mr Silverthorne breezily, ‘what can you tell me about this Thomas fellow?'

Arnie ran through all the details, and as he listened, Mr Silverthorne picked out one book after another, flipping through the soft pages swiftly, stopping to read an extract every now and then. He carried on searching and nodding until Arnie had concluded his account, before he turned to him and spoke without apology.

‘I'd be surprised if this lad would be worthy of a mention. These records are restricted to activities concerning the estate.'

‘But his father worked here at one time. He was the gamekeeper.'

‘Well, his wages would probably be paid out from the general running costs, and not included in these household figures. I wouldn't know where a record like that would be held, if anywhere – it is so long ago.'

‘Not to me it isn't,' said Arnie frustrated.

‘I am a man of facts, not fiction and need more convincing than most people. I have to believe your story beyond any doubt that could remain in my mind,' said Mr Silverthorne, looking very much the man of law.

Arnie tried another tack. ‘Why don't we go to the room? Look for the secret chamber.'

‘You would be very unlikely to find any evidence of Thomas hiding there – even if it existed – which I doubt.'

‘And if we found it?' said Arnie.

‘Still no proof of meeting this Thomas. Which is your point isn't it?'

‘I might as well go to bed then,' said Arnie, folding his arms. ‘I'm never going to convince you am I?'

‘I am open to persuasion,' said Mr Silverthorne, tapping his cane, ‘if the case can be proved. Let me see.' He eyed a small stubby ladder and moved it along to the tallest shelf. Securing it, he mounted the steps until he found what he was looking for. He returned with two large books, rather like photograph albums, and untying the string that pinched their crumbling jackets, handed one to Arnie.

‘What are these?' he asked suspiciously.

‘A bit of local history,' smiled the old man. ‘Let's have a look and see what we can find.'

They each pulled a chair over to a writing desk.

‘I recall being told,' said Mr Silverthorne, sitting down, ‘that the house used to keep files of newspaper cuttings that were relevant to the family at Shabbington Hall. Bit of a gamble I know, but perhaps we'll find it was time well spent.'

He turned the pages over, smiling every so often as he paused to read. ‘Look at that! My little cottage alongside the orchard covered in apple blossom – isn't that just wonderful?'

‘Yeah – great I'm sure, but shouldn't we be hunting down my story?'

Mr Silverthorne continued onwards until his finger stabbed at a date.

‘Ah! Here we are, these seem to be from around the outbreak of the Great War. 1914.'

He skipped over the following days and weeks until he came to the last page.

‘Final entry is June 8
^th
1915, as far as I can see – anything in yours?'

Arnie opened his book and flipped through the contents quickly, skip reading one clipping after another. He reached a piece of pale creased newspaper and balked as the bold headline jumped out:

“DESERTER CAUGHT ON MARTLESHAM ESTATE.”

Arnie cleared his throat and read aloud,

Arnie looked up. ‘All pretty accurate I would say.'

‘Is that it? Does it end there?' Mr Silverthorne said, intrigued.

Arnie looked down and saw that the article continued.

Arnie stopped reading. ‘I'd say my hair was more brown than black but guess it was hard for them to see in the dark,' he said, as if he was correcting a factual error.

Mr Silverthorne gave a plain smile and rested his hands on the table.

‘So?' said Arnie.

‘Well, you certainly have a vivid memory and
imagination
in spades, I'd say
.
'

‘But this account; written up just as I saw it, how
could
I know it all? I've never been in this room!'

‘Maybe
you're
a magician?' said Mr Silverthorne, standing up.

‘Huh!' said Arnie grumpily, rising to his feet also and stuffing his hands in his side pockets. And there he felt it. His expression changed as he extracted the forgotten cigarette lighter and held it out in front of him.

‘Where did you get that young man?'

‘I picked it up from inside that wooden hut on the lawn. Thomas must have taken it from the house before he went on the run – it's very old isn't it?'

Mr Silverthorne examined it carefully. ‘I think these initials may belong to Lord Edward Martlesham. See here the inscription E.M above the family crest. He inherited the house in 1915 from his father…' He trailed off.

‘Dates fit then.'

‘I'd like to believe you Master Jenks,' he said cautiously as if defending a likely villain, ‘but your story is too incredible! You must have heard this tale from elsewhere, and now dreamt it into a full-blown event.'

‘Hang on!' Arnie interjected.

‘To you it
is
real. But to everyone else…I'm sorry. Nobody in the world would believe you.' Mr Silverthorne sighed, shaking his head. ‘You must see that?'

‘And the cigarette lighter?' urged Arnie.

‘Probably been lost in that summerhouse for years.'

‘But Thomas could've dropped it there…' Arnie persisted.

Mr Silverthorne held up his hand as the hall clock chimed. He removed his pocket watch and nodded. ‘One in the morning, very late for us both,' he said, ushering Arnie to the door.

They returned upstairs and reached Mr Silverthorne's room.

‘I hope you do manage to rest for the remainder of the night young man. I am minded to lock you in your bedroom to prevent you walking in your sleep again but I'm not normally in favour of such things so trust you will somehow avoid the temptation?'

‘Just wish you'd understand, that's all,' said Arnie, utterly deflated.

‘How can I?' smiled Mr Silverthorne. ‘Even in a house like this, I couldn't begin to imagine it.

Arnie opened his mouth to argue but the old man was already twisting the door handle. ‘I'd plan to forget all about it, if I were you, he said blithely, moving inside. ‘Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight,' Arnie replied bemused.

‘And no more dreaming about ghosts,' Mr Silverthorne said over his shoulder, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Arnie stood in his bedroom. The leaded windows were glazed with condensation and the air was alpine sharp. He slipped into bed under the wafer-thin sheets and cowered trying to block out the cold. The pillow felt like porcelain to the touch and the bedding as if it had been stored in a fridge. He pulled his jumper up over his ears and squirmed about trying to get warm.

Very slowly he drifted into unconsciousness and dreams wandered in.

*

Arnie was on a ship. Long and proud she lay in a deep blue sea. He could not feel the heat but could see the golden sun fry the flat unspoilt water, motionless due to lack of wind. The speck of a bird circled around the crow's nest high above him screeching and wailing. He looked down and across the salt blasted deck at the sailors who lay still – their bodies outstretched, their fingers crablike – being picked over by flies.

‘You need help?' a voice called out.

A dark-skinned man broke through the soft yellow light and stood over Arnie.

‘I am Joseph,' he said simply. ‘Who are you?'

Arnie's throat was parched. He struggled to push out what he wanted to say – but no words would come.

After a moment, Joseph's stare stretched into a brilliant white welcome before he turned away and ambled towards the other side of the ship.

‘Where am I?' he cried out but the sound didn't carry and Joseph continued to walk off as if Arnie's presence didn't matter.

Arnie shielded his eyes from the rays of the sun and through it he read three words;
Empress of Hope.
The name of the ship.

‘Where am I?' he repeated, but the reply that came was not human. It was the sound of knocking on wood – first from somewhere to his left, and then his right, then everywhere – burrowing deep inside him. As the noise became louder and stronger, the scorching light of the sun melted away like foam being sprayed with water until gradually nothing was left except the dark.

*

Arnie kicked off the blankets and sat on the side of the bed wiping his brow. He felt clammy and his head hurt. Then the knocking started again and the latch on the bedroom door bumped urgently against the frame, as if someone was rapping insistently from the other side.

Arnie jumped up and yanked the door open.

‘Emily!' He stared at her a little shocked. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Isn't it obvious?' she said slightly surprised. ‘I've been standing here like a lemon waiting for you to open it!'

‘Why?' said Arnie.

‘Can't you hear it?'

Arnie poked his head out into the corridor.

‘Not really,' he said, moving to the banisters and staring down into the hall. All he could see different were several thick squat candles on spikes burning brightly.

‘I definitely heard voices,' said Emily joining him.

‘Did you recognise them?'

‘No. I didn't. So I rushed up here to find you!'

‘You did?'

‘Yes, I did. I thought you would want to be involved!'

From the far end of the landing a little terrier dog appeared and waddled up to them out of the gloom, pausing only to pull at threads in the rich, deep woven carpet. It stopped and nuzzled Arnie's feet.

The tall slender figure of a young woman striding purposefully followed, her powder black shoes sliding effortlessly making little sound. No older than twenty-five, wearing a dark green velvet dress with cream lace around the cuffs and a string of pearls swinging around an unblemished pale neck, she pointed her hand towards them.

‘You two must be from the village – we've been expecting you. Though you
are
late. I specifically said to arrive on the hour of five. And why are you not below receiving instructions?' she said, not pausing to stop until she reached the top of the stairs.

‘Instructions?' Arnie queried, glancing at Emily.

‘Your duties naturally. Come along, they'll all be here any time now,' and she gathered her hem and made her way carefully down towards the hall.

‘What's she talking about?' whispered Arnie, as he and Emily followed obediently.

Reaching the last step, the young woman turned her face towards them for the first time.

‘Lady Dervela Martlesham!' Arnie spluttered.

‘Yes, did you expect someone else?'

‘Not really sure actually,' Arnie replied honestly. ‘This place is full of surprises.'

Lady Dervela looked at him quizzically and then frowned. ‘And what
do
you suppose you are wearing?'

Arnie looked blank.

‘You were required to present yourselves in simple workers' clothes that befit someone serving and attending to those at a social gathering.'

‘A party – I think she means,' explained Emily out of the corner of her mouth.

‘I can't imagine what your mothers were thinking of!'

Emily straightened her apron over her dress and curtseyed.

Lady Dervela sighed. ‘Well, you seem to display manners which is something to cherish. So, I suppose you'll have to do.'

Emily smiled back.

‘But as for you child,' she said, staring peculiarly at Arnie's ill-fitting clothes, ‘you need some adjusting. Come with me.'

They trooped over to a nearby cupboard behind the stairs from where Lady Dervela revealed a rack of various garments and proceeded to search for something suitable for Arnie to wear. He waved at a white shirt with a frilly collar.

Lady Dervela shook her head. ‘Too large – made for a man twice your size.'

She delved in and pulled out a smock. Much simpler – dark brown with light sleeves. She laid it across him.

Arnie shrugged. Emily tried to stifle a snigger.

‘It should fit,' said Lady Dervela, before looking down to his scarlet corduroy trousers.

‘This is an odd stitch,' she claimed, shaking her head before examining the fabric carefully. ‘But not too upsetting,' as she dug out a small cloth cap to complete her reinvention of Arnie's look. The little dog barked excitedly.

‘Tumble seems to agree,' she said, stooping to tickle his chin.

Arnie pulled the shirt over his existing clothes and in a trice he was ready. He bowed to Emily.

‘I think you've got the job!' Emily winked trying not to laugh.

Lady Dervela greeted their readiness with a nod of satisfaction and beckoned them to follow her. Arnie grabbed Emily's hand.

‘
1562-1617!
'

‘What is?'

‘Her dates! I remember seeing them! Written under a painting of her – hung up over there.' Arnie indicated towards the long corridor where he had been running recklessly earlier that day. Together with the portrait – it wasn't there.

Emily looked at him. ‘Where's it gone?'

‘It can't have been built yet – not in the time we are now.'

Ahead of them a solid wall loomed in which sat a door. Lady Dervela led the way through it.

Out the other side, the tang of the night air prickled, as they crossed a flagstone quadrangle through an arch and up to another door. This was made of solid oak and intricately carved. Arnie wondered what lay behind.

Inside the Great Hall, a flurry of activity greeted them. Servants hurried up and down unloading trays, arranging flowers and plumping cushions, while in another part of the room a motley collection of musicians plucked and stroked at their lutes and mandolins. Over their heads, a pair of jesters in richly embroidered gold and tan outfits practiced their juggling routine.

Arnie stood gaping at a long medieval table that crossed the centre of the room groaning with food in all colours of the rainbow.

A turkey complete with feathers watched over geese and quails – split and splayed – alongside hams, ringlets of sausage and meat pies. Salvers of dried fruits and nuts, bowls of figs, apricots and pomegranates, baskets of mushrooms and truffles, grapefruit and melons all piled high next to cloves of garlic and bunches of chillies. Open oyster shells and molluscs crowded around jugs of honey and cups of sugar, pitchers of beer and fruit wines.

Emily shuddered at the sight of a wild boar spread-eagled on a bed of maize – its trotters glistening in syrup, nose red raw and gaping mouth pinned open by a gargantuan apple.

‘Don't fancy that!' she grimaced. ‘Where would you start?'

‘Are those cherries?' wowed Arnie. ‘I love them!' as he skipped over to a platter and plucking one from its stalk gobbled it down. His mouth radiated delight.

‘Not for the helpers,' said Lady Dervela gliding past.

Arnie dropped a second cherry back onto the plate reluctantly.

‘Now, when the guests appear, you are to circulate and make sure everyone is well looked after. Cloaks and hats can be placed in that side room over there,' Lady Dervela gestured to them, as she made her way towards a towering mass of blooms perched delicately on a stool.

‘That's easy, no big deal,' said Arnie confidently, seizing a flagon and lifting it heroically.

‘They're heavier than they look,' warned Emily.

‘Whoa!' whooped Arnie, as his elbow buckled violently causing a little of the liquid to slosh out onto the floor.

‘Arnie! Careful!' chided Emily.

‘Sorry,' said Arnie, looking about guiltily as one of the jesters juggling balls flew over his head. ‘I don't think she saw, I…'

He trailed away, fixated on what he now spied over Emily's shoulder. She registered his look turn to one of amazement.

Displayed on a dais in the corner of the room was a model of a ship. On the prow was etched a name.
Empress of Hope.
Arnie gasped as he moved forward to touch it. ‘It's the same one!'

Emily looked around confused. ‘What is?'

‘I saw it in my dream!'

‘What dream?'

‘The one you interrupted when you woke me.'

‘You had a dream about this ship? How can you be sure?'

Arnie nodded his head.
‘I know it. The name – I saw the name.'
And he traced over the word “
Empress
” very lightly as if it was likely to crumble.

‘And what happened?'

‘Something was wrong – it was hot and everyone was dead and…
a man
spoke to me.' Arnie looked at Emily trying to explain.

‘Who did?'

‘Him!' said Arnie, pointing.

Emily swung round
.

The same dark-skinned man was standing alongside Lady Dervela, bearing a single glass containing a frothy pink liquid. He bowed his shaven head for a moment as she took the drink; her eyes thanking him over the rim.

‘His name is Joseph…' said Arnie wondering. ‘And I want to talk to him.'

As Lady Dervela moved away to a table and resumed her diligent flower arranging, Arnie seized his opportunity.