Ghosts of Oaklight Hall

Chapter 1-2

“Looks like you’ve not seen such fun in a while, my friend,” I said, as he waved away my offer to reciprocate, fearing to be late back to the depot.

“Well, only old Frooty. He drops an extra shilling in the pay packet for extra services, but he’s a bit cheesy for my taste, if you know what I mean?” I did and felt my stomach churn at the thought.

“Why work for the man then?” I asked.

“Had my own bakery business before the war, but Froots took me over when I couldn’t afford the rent on the shop. Froot doctors the flour with plaster-of-Paris so keeps his prices lower than I ever could.” His eyes pointed to the loaves next to my Gladstone bag, and their suspicious solidity was now explained. I’d heard of this practice, but thought it confined to the city. “And does no one complain?”

“He’s the only baker left in Weskdale after he shut me down. People ain’t got no choice. Tells folk he makes them extra crusty. If anyone complains, he just charges them more.”

There seemed nothing left to add, so I buttoned myself back up. I had to admit; the man’s timing was perfect. The line of poplars had now ceased, and taking hold of the reins, he turned the wagon sharply left on to what must be the drive to Oaklight Hall.

A thick hawthorn hedge marked the edge of the estate, over fifteen feet high and definitely in need of a trim. Passing the hedge, we came to a gap and the drive to the Hall itself. Once, there had been a pair of wrought iron gates providing an impressive entrance to the estate. But one of the gates had fallen from its hinges completely and lay rusting on its back, almost totally covered by tall grass and weeds that had obviously not seen a scythe in years. The other left-hand gate swung drunkenly from one hinge as if eager to join its twin on the unkempt lawn.

As we drove past the ruined gates, the wagon gave a brief rumble, and the sound of the wheels changed as we passed onto the gravel that led to the Hall.

The drive was potted and uneven and had almost as many weeds as the lawns to either side. Only the passage of heavy wheels had made the driveway navigable at all.

My driver now kept his eyes and attention closely on his driving, steering a path that avoided most of the ruts that threatened to overturn the wagon. Before us, our destination was now clear.

The house sat in a shallow bowl-shaped courtyard filled with gravel that extended about twenty feet from the house. The courtyard was bounded by a low wall that circled the building so that any incomers such as ourselves would experience a drop as we entered the main curtilage of the property. I guess that made the approach to the building more dramatic.

The green-domed tower stood at the extreme right, connected to the main structure of the main building by a low annexe. The ecclesiastical origins of the building were unmistakable. A square central tower: faced with a high fronted arch and pointed windows. It looked like a truncated church. Up closer, the building loomed mournfully over its surroundings, its stonework cracked and its mortar crumbling. Structures flanked the tower on both sides. That to the left had the largest windows, having the trefoil shape that is common in churches. Adding to the religious feel was a simple cross-shaped eyelet set into the stonework near the gable. The building to the right looked like a later addition of grey stone, although much of this was now covered in red creeper. The roof was of slate, rendered almost yellow with the growth of algae staining it. Even from the angle at which I viewed it, I could see several slates were missing.

My companion nudged me unexpectedly, indicating that we were not the only visitors. In the deep shadow close to the building, I now saw what I had missed. Parked outside the main entrance sat a highly polished hearse, led by four horses, black as midnight. Each horse was crowned with a black ostrich feather, set in silver sconces on their foreheads.

I had only moments to take this in. As a working man, my baker friend would be expected to make his deliveries to the tradesman’s entrance. The wagon wheeled around the building, pulling up several feet from the double doors that marked the access to the kitchens, unable to come closer because of the two high steps that led down from it.

We both jumped down to attend our respective business. I introduced myself, and my companion told me his name was Wilfred. Ending our relationship, as so often I have done with a handshake and an exchange of names. Which is, I suppose is how most fellows would begin one.

I was about to set off; unlike Wilfred, I had no intention of beginning my business here at the tradesman’s entrance when he called after me once more.

“Beware the brioche buns,” he said, miming a jerking motion in front of his crotch. “Some of the lads like to add their own flavourings,” he added with a wink. Then the door to the kitchen opened, and I left him to his deliveries.

I walked back around to the front of the house, passing the hearse parked there once more. The black horses stood so still, they might have been waxworks. It was no wonder that I hadn’t spotted them straight away. The sides of the hearse were mostly glass, although, at the moment, there was no occupant. On the back panel, underneath elaborate and highly polished brass fittings, was the name of the undertaker, Piggit & Spool, plus the legend: Undertaker and celebrated photographer of the departed.

I had a fair guess at who might have died. Lord Oaklight was elderly, mad as a hatter, and the reason my father’s company had been given control of the estate’s finances. Lord Oaklight combined the twin obsessions of the British aristocracy of horses and dogs with a family predisposition for insanity. It was rumoured round the office that he only ate from a nosebag and had a fondness for biting the ankles of anyone that he didn’t like the look of and who had made the mistake of coming too close for his liking.

Reaching the front door, I pulled on the bell, but by its feel, I could tell the cable must have perished and was unlikely to bring a result. I banged hard on the heavy wooden door and waited for someone to come. After several minutes I knocked again, only to have the door open in my face as I did so. A short, dough-faced butler answered, heavy jowls hanging over the too-small collar of his starched shirt. His hair of suspiciously black curls parted on the right and swept up into what looked like a wave breaking on his domed forehead. I touched my bowler briefly and announced that my business was with the master of the house. The butler gave a look of deep, if not totally convincing sorrow.

“I’m afraid Lord Oaklight died this very morning sir,” said the man, confirming my suspicions. “The house is not receiving visitors at this time.”

“I am very sad to hear that,” I persisted. “But I have come up from London from the Trust that handles the financial affairs of the estate. If Lord Oaklight is no more, then I must insist on speaking with his heir, the new Lord Oaklight.” The butler shifted awkwardly but didn’t seem ready to give ground just yet.

“I regret, young Master Matthew is indisposed and also unable to receive visitors.” The man’s eyes narrowed into a frown, his body moving to block my way. I took a deep breath, wondering if there was any way to gain access without knocking this i***t on his backside. I forced a smile and pulled a shilling from my pocket, pushing it into the man’s free hand, together with my card. The butler’s lips pursed briefly as he ignored the card and looked closely at the coin, appraising it. He then shrugged and put it in his pocket. Not perhaps impressed by my bribe, but a bob is still a bob, I thought.

“I’ll advise Lady Flora that you wish to see her,” he said stiffly. “Please wait here.”

Of course! Lady Flora, I had seen her name in the brief I had been given, as the eldest child of Lord Oaklight. I suppose I should have asked for her first. But to be honest with you, I hadn’t paid as much attention to my father’s briefing as I should have done. In my teens, I had run away to sea to avoid joining the family business. Having to enter it after leaving the navy was still a difficult pill to swallow. I confess, I was having trouble adjusting to the diligence that was now expected of me.

I stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Its floor was of worn flagstones, and the room’s space was broken with shabby and outdated furniture. A broad wooden staircase rose up the far right wall with doors to either side of its base. The few windows were high and narrow and shed little light. I could make out gas lamps on the walls, but none of these were lit. The only additional illumination came from several candle sconces on the walls that appeared to predate the fitting of modern gas lighting. The butler shuffled off as stiffly as his collar, taking his time to fetch his mistress. A delay, I guessed, that was as much to do with the smallness of my bribe as anything due to infirmity.

I felt something brush my legs as I entered. Looking down, a scruffy ginger cat scuttled past me, taking advantage of the open door. A large green frog dangled from its mouth, grasped by a single leg. I clapped my hands to make the ginger monster drop the thing. But it was beyond rescue. The cat sat down in one of the few pools of sunlight highlighting the flagstone floor and stared insolently back at me. The hapless amphibian, still dangling from the cat’s mouth, stared pleadingly back at me with its wide limpid eyes.

A sudden noise on the other side of the room and the cat scuttled off, bearing the frog away to whatever fate awaited it.

A tall thin woman in her early forties stepped through one of the doors opposite. She strode across the flagstones in steps that were as long as she could take in the form-fitting dress she was wearing. A frill of dingy pink lace peeked out from beneath the high collar, forcing her head sternly upright. Her chestnut hair was woven into a basket weave at the front, a style that had been popular over ten years ago and secured at the back with another piece of the same lace. Beside her walked an elderly gentleman in a well-tailored, if unfashionable by several decades, black suit. Despite his age, he looked sprightly, seeming to scamper alongside the younger woman as if rather pleased with the way their conversation was going.

“Please make sure ma’am that Lord Oaklight is left undisturbed…bound to be some…rigidification overnight. If he is moved,” he paused, his bloodless lips appearing to tremble as if searching for the correct wording…“it may prove somewhat…challenging to restore an appropriate pose for the deceased gentleman.”

“Do not concern yourself, Mr. Spool. My late father will be left undisturbed as you have directed. Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?” The woman paused, registering my presence for the first time. Seconds later, the door behind her opened once more to reveal a now red-faced butler. Breathless and lacking the composure he had shown earlier, he emerged through the door after his mistress, as if he had only just caught up with her. It seemed he had trailed the house looking for her, only to find her in the very place he had begun his errand.