Deadlight-Hall

Deadlight Hall by Sarah Rayne





ONE


‘I don’t mean to imply the house is haunted,’ said Professor Rosendale firmly. ‘And it’s probably nothing more than childhood memories that have become distorted with the years. I really do think that’s all it is, Dr Flint.’ He waited for Michael to tip Wilberforce off the most comfortable chair, on which Wilberforce had shed cat hairs before going to sleep on a wodge of Michael’s lecture notes, then sat down.

Michael Flint, whom the professor had approached midway through one of Oriel College’s more somnolent autumn afternoons, said childhood memories could be strange things, and asked where the house was.

‘It’s just this side of Wolvercote. Only a few miles out of Oxford. It’s an early Victorian mansion and it’s been derelict for years. But now it’s being renovated – turned into apartments. Six or eight of them. It sounds as if they’ll be very smart,’ said the professor, rather wistfully.

‘Professor, I’ll help in any way I can,’ said Michael, ‘but I hardly know a roof joist from a window frame. I’m the last person to advise anyone about property purchase.’

‘Oh, I’m not buying,’ said Professor Rosendale at once. ‘It’s the house itself. I’m concerned about people going to live there. I knew it for a while when I was a child, and there’s a strangeness – a darkness to it. Now you’ll think I’m strange myself,’ he said, apologetically.

‘I don’t think that,’ said Michael at once. ‘Houses can be odd things.’

‘And childhood memories can play odd tricks.’

‘Well, yes. But events – tragedies, perhaps – can sometimes leave an imprint on a building. And an impressionable child witnessing something traumatic—’

‘But that’s the difficulty,’ said Leo Rosendale. ‘I don’t know if I’m remembering actual events, or if it’s all in my imagination. And I don’t know how reliable my memory is either. Not,’ he said, rather wryly, ‘after so many years. So I thought if somebody could go in there and take an objective look round – someone who understands that houses sometimes possess—’

‘Darknesses?’ Michael deliberately repeated the professor’s own word.

‘Yes. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, and I’m fairly sure I’m not succumbing to some weird illness. But I believe you’ve had one or two strange experiences with old houses. Dr Bracegirdle from the History Faculty was talking about it the other day in the SCR. Somewhere in the Fens, I think he said.’

Michael silently cursed Owen Bracegirdle, who was a good friend, but also the liveliest gossip in College. He said carefully that he had stayed recently in a couple of places that had slightly macabre histories.

‘I really would be most grateful if you could spare an hour or so,’ said the professor. ‘I thought you might be the one person in College who might understand.’

‘How would I get in?’ asked Michael.

The professor’s face lit up. ‘The builders are working there during the week,’ he said, ‘so you’d be able to go inside quite openly.’

Michael was becoming intrigued. He said, ‘I’ve got a free morning tomorrow. I could take a look then.’

‘Could you? I’m sure I’m making much out of very little, but it would put my mind at rest.’

‘Of course. What’s the address?’

‘It’s called Deadlight Hall,’ said Rosendale, and Michael had the curious impression that by saying the house’s name aloud, an invisible hand had scribbled the words on to the air in black, greasy letters. It was absurd to imagine the black scribble remained there for the rest of the afternoon.

It had taken Leo Rosendale a long time to decide to approach Dr Flint. He did not know Michael very well – his own faculty and the English Literature department did not have particularly close contact – but there had been one or two vaguely friendly meetings in the SCR or in Hall.

English literature was hardly a subject that qualified someone to grapple with Deadlight Hall. No matter how learned Michael Flint was about the Romantic poets, and no matter how many odd experiences he had had, what lay at Deadlight Hall’s dark core was worlds away from elegies in graveyards and cobwebbed mausoleums. But after today’s meeting Leo felt he had done the right thing. Dr Flint was said to be trustworthy and generally well liked by his colleagues and his students. The fact that he bore that strong resemblance to the English romantic poets – Keats before he succumbed to consumption or even Byron before he succumbed to debauchery – would have helped Flint’s popularity, of course. The professor had occasionally wished he had been given the gift of good looks himself, although good looks probably only brought trouble with the opposite sex. He sometimes thought it might be nice to have got married and had children, but these were things that had never come his way and he had not really missed them. There had been Sophie, of course, but she had been lost to him a very long time ago.