Deadlight-Hall(29)

‘A good source would be Land Registration documents and Searches or Transfers of Title, at the Rural Council Offices,’ wrote Owen. ‘They’re publicly accessible documents, and it’s a legitimate request to look at them – particularly if the place is being chopped into flats and sold off piecemeal. Tell me you aren’t chasing spooks again – no, on second thoughts, don’t tell me that at all, because I love a good mystery, and you and Nell do seem to get into such intriguing situations.’

Michael replied suitably to Owen, then consulted his diary, and found that apart from the weekly meeting with his faculty head, he was free until late afternoon. This meant he could spend most of the morning tracing Deadlight Hall’s past. Professor Rosendale would certainly not be expecting him to spend so much time delving into the subject for him, but Michael was curious. There was something strange about the place, and he wanted to find out more. If he could uncover anything that would help or reassure the professor, all to the good.

The next email was from the photographer, who had called the previous day to take the publicity photographs of Wilberforce for the new book.

Hi Michael

Great to meet you yesterday – just love the shots we got of your fantastic rooms.

I’m sure we can get the camera stand and the light meter repaired – again, please forget about paying for that, I’ve got oodles of insurance, and if I haven’t your publishers will probably stump up the dosh, although don’t tell them I said that.

I hope Wilberforce’s tail hasn’t suffered too badly. My word, he can yowl when he’s annoyed, can’t he? And I hope you can get the curtains mended and the cushion re-stuffed.

I’ll come back early next week to photograph him properly. It would be good if you can actually get him to sit down this time. Have you thought about trank pills – most vets do them. I’m sure they’d help.

Best,

Rafe

The third email was from Michael’s editor, who was hoping to hear that the photographer had got some fabulous shots of Wilberforce.

Michael would be pleased to hear they were going to set up a separate fan page for Wilberforce on their website, inviting the cat’s many young fans to write in. Perhaps Michael might dash off a few words telling the eager young readers a little about Wilberforce’s background? A sort of potted biog, only not too potted. Around 750 words would be good. There was no real rush, but it would be nice if they could have it by midweek.

Michael sent a polite note to the photographer, and then, ignoring the claims of several essays on the metaphysical poets which were waiting for his critical attention, sat down to write a background for the fictional Wilberforce. In the event, he rather enjoyed creating several colourful ancestors, which included various piratical gentlemen, a fruity Thespian personage whom family legend credited with having written most of Shakespeare’s plays, and a Tower of London cat who had unintentionally foiled a Gunpowder Plot shortly before Guy Fawkes’ famous conspiracy. (‘And Master Wilberforce forgot to bring the matches, so the City of London and the King were saved.’)

He reread this, frowning. Were Guy Fawkes and Shakespeare too advanced for the seven-and eight-year-olds who devoured Wilberforce’s adventures? No, surely they would have heard of both gentlemen, and it would probably please a number of parents to think their offspring were picking up odd snippets of history. It would also allow the illustrators to have a field day. Michael emailed the biography to his editor before he could change his mind, and went off to his faculty meeting.

His return was greeted by the vet’s bill for de-turpentining Wilberforce, which had been brought up to his rooms by the porter on the grounds that it was marked ‘Urgent’. The porter pointed out that it was not part of his duties to hand-deliver missives, but you could not ignore an ‘Urgent’ letter, could you, so here it was, Dr Flint, and begging pardon for being so out of breath, but climbing those bloody stairs played havoc with the tubes of a morning.

‘It’s very good of you,’ said Michael, reaching for his wallet. ‘Have a drink on me to help the tubes out.’

By the time the porter had departed, his tubes considerably appeased by the tip, and Michael had recovered from astonishment at the amount requested by the vet, his editor, who had the uncanny ability of reading most things at the speed of light, had emailed again. She liked the Wilberforce biog so much she wanted him to expand the Gunpowder Plot idea, with the aim of starting a spin-off for a set of children’s historical tales. Michael could doubtless dash off one or two books on this theme, could he? Not too teachy, but underpinned by accurate historical information.