The Ordeal of the Haunted Room

Book 0: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

A Christmas ghost story - Chronicles of St Mary's style! For fans of Doctor Who and Jasper Fforde... and A Christmas Carol.

Where better for the annual festive jump than the chance to experience a real Victorian Christmas?

On the longest night of 1895, a terrible storm rages above Harewood Hall. Max, Markham and an injured Peterson are welcomed in by the Harewood family, but soon realise that, in true St Mary's style, they couldn't have arrived at a better moment. For tonight marks the Ordeal of the Haunted Room. Dum ... dum ... dum ...

Every Harewood heir must endure one terrifying night alone in the Haunted Room before he can inherit the family seat. Legend says that a ghost will murder anyone who isn't the true successor.

Henry Harewood's ordeal will begin at midnight and end at dawn, but it isn't long before everything goes horribly wrong...

Readers love Jodi Taylor:

'Once in a while, I discover an author who changes everything... Jodi Taylor and her protagonista Madeleine "Max" Maxwell have seduced me'

'A great mix of British proper-ness and humour with a large dollop of historical fun'

'Addictive. I wish St Mary's was real and I was a part of it'

'Jodi Taylor has an imagination that gets me completely hooked'

'A tour de force'

(P)2020 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: December 25, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

The Winter Solstice, 1985. The longest night of the year. The night when anything can happen . . .

 

Apparently, the whole thing was my fault. I said I thought it was going to snow, Markham and Peterson obediently looked up at the murky sky and Peterson went arse over tit and hurt his foot. How any of that can be laid at my door was a mystery to me and Markham and I held a spirited discussion over just that point until we couldn’t hear ourselves any longer for Peterson’s ridiculously melodramatic moaning.

‘My foot, my foot,’ he whimpered.

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ said Markham. ‘Let’s have a look.’

‘Should I get my boot off?’

‘Not unless you want your foot to fall off,’ I said, which, while an interesting and unusual sight, would not be conducive to the successful accomplishment of our assignment.

Peterson’s suggestion as to where I could put my assignment – successfully completed or otherwise – was not deemed particularly helpful.

‘Now what do we do?’ said Markham. ‘It’s miles back to the pod and I don’t think Hopalong here will make it.’

‘I can see roofs through the trees over there,’ I said. ‘A house or a farm perhaps. I’m sure someone will take us in.’

We heaved Peterson to his feet – well, foot, anyway – and off we set, arguing over whose fault everything was which helped to pass the time.

It wasn’t a farm. We passed through a pair of very impressive wrought-iron gates – unlocked, fortunately. There was a crest on the stone pillars, worn almost smooth with age. Markham closed the gates neatly behind us and we strode and hopped our way up the carriage sweep to the posh house at the end of it.

Typically, its rather charming Jacobean exterior had been almost completely overwhelmed by Victorian Gothic turrets and battlements. There was no moat but dungeons seemed a good bet. Nor did any bats hover menacingly over the bell tower, but I couldn’t help feeling it was only a matter of time.

Not all was gloom and doom, though. No matter how much the house looked like the setting from one of those children’s programmes where pesky kids and their dog thwart the wicked ghosts, warm golden lights shone at several windows so someone was in. Which was just as well because the wind was beginning to get up and there was sleet in it. We were in for some wild weather.

I left Markham supporting our wounded soldier and climbed the steps to ply the knocker with some vigour. Three sonorous booms echoed around the house.

‘Bloody hell, Max,’ said Markham. ‘You made it sound like the last trump. They’ll never open the door now.’

It seemed he was right. Time ticked on and no one came. I looked around. The afternoon was darkening and black branches tossed wildly to and fro. This was no time for innocent historians to be abroad. Or us, either.

I was all set to give it another go, but eventually, slowly, the door opened. Narrative tradition demands a sinister butler – with or without a hump – a creaking door, a gloomy hall, cobwebs and somewhere in the darkness, a woman sobbing quietly.

What we actually saw was a stout, mutton-chopped butler, the epitome of respectability, and behind him, a welcoming, well-lit hall. I actually felt a pang of regret. A ghost story would have been nice for Christmas. As Peterson said afterwards, I never learn, do I?

For a moment we all looked at each other and then the butler stepped back, solemnly bidding us welcome.

Fortunately, his employer was considerably less formidable. A tall young woman emerged from a door to the right, asking, ‘Who is it, Barnstable?’

She was sensibly dressed in morning wear – a tailored blouse, high at the neck, tucked into a bell-shaped skirt, fitted over the hips. Her dark hair was dressed high on her head with soft curls at the front. Pretty, practical and fashionable.

‘I am endeavouring to ascertain that fact, madam,’ he said forbiddingly, never taking his eyes off us. The rain began to come down in earnest.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said politely. ‘I am so sorry to make claims on your hospitality but my . . . brother has suffered a fall and hurt his foot.’

Thus reminded of his injury, Peterson smiled wanly.

‘Goodness gracious,’ she said, and I made a mental note to dial back my normal bad language before it got me into trouble. ‘You must come in. Barnstaple . . .’ She gestured to us.

Barnstaple unbent sufficiently to assist Peterson in through the door and settle him in a chair. Within seconds he was surrounded by a bevy of housemaids. Much in the same way that carnivores gather around a stricken antelope. I think there were a couple of footmen in there, as well. While everyone fussed around Peterson – you could see him loving every moment of it – I stepped back and took a quick look around.

We were standing in a large hall, traditionally decorated for its time with gloomy pictures, fussy curtains, and branches of candles everywhere. The colour scheme was dark and sombre. Mysterious shadows jumped in the flickering candlelight although I was inclined to think that was more due to the gale force draughts rather than anything sinister.

Heavy doors opened off this space and the one from which the woman had emerged offered a glimpse of a comfortably furnished sitting room. Interestingly, though, there were no Christmas decorations. Not anywhere. We were only a few days before Christmas. Victorians were usually not subtle when it came to interior decoration so there should be at least one Christmas tree – now very fashionable after its original introduction by Queen Charlotte in 1800 – together with greenery and garlands and ribbons draped over every available surface.

I turned to face our hostess. The mistress of the house, I assumed.

‘I am so sorry to have troubled you. I am Mrs Farrell and this is my brother, Dr Peterson, who is, I am sorry to say, incapable of not falling over his own feet. And his man, Markham.’

She smiled politely, glancing at the rain now hammering against the windows. ‘It is certainly no afternoon to be outside and I can assure you it is no trouble.’

Well, it wouldn’t be for her. She’d have twelve thousand servants downstairs all ready to fulfil her slightest whim. On the other hand, underneath her kind face, her air was distracted and tense. It couldn’t be us, surely. We’d only been in the house two minutes.

‘My name is Letitia Harewood. This is my husband’s house. You are very welcome although you will find us a little distracted at the moment. I think the best thing is to look at Dr Peterson’s foot while we can still take his boot off. Perhaps we should cut the laces. Oh, well done, Barnstaple. You think of everything.’

Obviously actually cutting the laces was beneath Barnstaple’s dignity – his responsibility ended with producing the appropriate implement. A footman cut the laces and gently eased off Peterson’s boot and sock and everyone peered at the affected body part.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, remembering my role as a member of the weaker sex, barely able to endur. . .