Page 7 of Skullduggery
We found ourselves in a large kitchen. Every surface, from the floor to the countertops to the massive fireplace set into one wall, was thick with dust. Large sheets covered several bulky items; I lifted the corner of one of them to reveal a wooden cabinet filled with old crockery and glasses. Swirling motes of dust rose into the air and all three of us sneezed in quick succession.
‘It’s like stepping back in time,’ Hester whispered as she wiped her nose.
I nodded in agreement. I understood why she was whispering: nobody could hear us, nobody was inside this house, but there was a distinct sensation that speaking normally would disturb the sleeping ghosts in this quiet place.
I dropped the sheet back over the cabinet. My eyes were drawn to a strange mark over the door which led outside; there was a large hole in the plaster and a spider’s web of cracks around it. Puzzled, I squinted at it before eventually shrugging. It was an old building that hadn’t been lived in for decades so it was bound to be in a state of disrepair.
I stepped over to a closed door that led deeper into the house. More dust flew up with every footstep. It must have been years since anyone had been inside here.
The door opened into a long hallway with covered picture frames hanging on the walls. Judging from the marks on the old oak floor, there had once been a rug running along it. It had probably been put into storage when all the furniture had been covered with sheets to await the return of Lady Rose. Except she hadn’t returned – and there was nothing to suggest she ever would.
I considered risking a tiny fireball to bob along in front of me and light my way, but if I lost control of it for even a second, the house and all its contents might catch fire before I could stop it. Given my recent habit of losing control, I erred on the side of caution, slid out my phone instead and turned on the torch function. It didn’t cast much light but it was better than nothing.
Holding it up in front of me, I walked forward gingerly, trying not to notice the way each floorboard creaked ominously. Five minutes, I decided; I’d wander around for five minutes and no more.
Hester and Otis flew close beside me; not even Hester appeared willing to overtake me. I didn’t think it was because they were afraid; the sense of awe we’d felt outside persisted, despite the mansion’s somewhat lugubrious and stale interior. Our unwillingness to rush was more out of respect for the building and its history than fear or wariness.
The hallway led to another door that opened into a grand vestibule. Once upon a time it had probably looked similar to the magnificent entrance at Pemberville Castle, albeit on a smaller scale. There were five closed doors, a sweeping staircase and several more pieces of furniture swathed in dust sheets.
I turned to the brownies with a questioning look. Otis shrugged unhappily but Hester pointed at the nearest door. I pursed my lips, then headed over to open it.
‘A drawing room of some kind,’ I said quietly. The air was fusty and the light dim, thanks to the shuttered windows. Despite that, Otis spotted something interesting.
‘Look,’ he said quietly, and pointed at a large painting on the far wall. The sheet covering it had fallen slightly, revealing part of a face. Unable to stop myself, I strode up to it and yanked it down then shone the phone light upwards to illuminate the picture.
‘That’s her,’ Hester said. ‘That has to be Lady Rose, right?’
I swallowed hard as I gazed at the portrait: it certainly could be her. The woman was dressed formally in a pretty cocktail dress with her red hair tied up in an elaborate style that belied her youthful features. The shade of her hair matched mine, but there was no way I could ever tame my unruly curls into a similar style.
The painter had captured a mischievous glint in Lady Rose’s eyes, as if she were planning something exceptionally daring yet highly unbecoming for someone of her status. She looked like a girl I’d have enjoyed getting to know; she also looked painfully young, barely more than a teenager.
‘She has a corsage of pink roses,’ Otis said. ‘And look – there are more flowers in the garden in the background and they’re roses, too. This has to be Lady Rose.’
Hester squinted. ‘There are lots of roses,’ she agreed. ‘But that building she’s standing in front of isn’t this one. It doesn’t look British.’
She was right: Lady Rose, if that’s who it was, had been painted beside a quaint cottage. Something about the quality of the light and the architecture suggested a building in a warmerclimate. It might not exist in real life – the artist could have conjured it up from their imagination, along with the blooming rose bushes.
I wasn’t interested in the location – it was Lady Rose who occupied my attention.
I stared at her pointed ears and her relaxed stance. Until that moment, she hadn’t seemed quite real; she’d been a character in a tragic story. I realised I’d been thinking of her like I might think of Anne Boleyn or Joan of Arc or Boudicca, but Lady Rose wasn’t ancient history. If she’d been alive today, she’d have been younger than Sir Nigel, younger than both my adoptive parents. She might have been someone with whom I could have become friends.
The painting brought her to life, at least in my mind, and I couldn’t help thinking of what Gordon had said. She deserved to be found and her story deserved to be told. The longer I looked at her portrait, the more unsettled I felt. I suppressed a faint shiver. Otis had been right: we shouldn’t be here. Breaking into Lady Rose’s house had been a terrible idea.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘But we’ve barely scratched the surface!’ Hester protested. ‘There are lots of rooms. We’ve hardly looked anywhere!’
‘We won’t find anything else we need. I’ve already found what I was looking for.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘What?’
Otis understood and pointed at the painting. ‘Her.’
I nodded. ‘Her.’ I turned away. ‘Come on.’
Retracing my steps, I left the drawing room, closed the door then swivelled to the right to return to the long hallway so we could go out through the kitchen door. I’d barely moved in that direction when Hester let out a strangled cry.
I stiffened in alarm. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
