Open Writing

Inspector Hartley had been fascinated for years by Pithon Hall and its Mausoleum. He’d seen them from the main road many times on his way to Halifax, but had never been able to get near them. Now he had the excuse.

They’d been built at the height of the Whitcliff fortune. Old Sir Joshua had been hooked on ancient Egyptian architecture and his obsession was reflected in the great hall and its Mausoleum. Great Egyptian pillars stood at the entrance of the hall over which loomed a copper dome green with verdigree. Marble sphinxes stretched themselves at the feet of the pillars. Castellation ran along the eaves. Much of it had deteriorated, leaving broken-toothed stretches. Grass and weeds grew in what was left of the guttering.

There had once been extensive gardens round the hall flanked by a high wall. That, too, had largely fallen down and scrabbling through the bracken and grasses, which had already claimed much of the old garden, were bits of broke fountains. An ornamental lake was now a marsh.

It was a half hour’s drive to Pithon Hall. The run went through Ingerworth and climbed steadily from there up to the moors, passing through straggling Victorian terraces, which ran off the main road on both sides.

At Crossgates there was an intersection. One road went west to Lancashire over the hilly backbone of England. The other went east to the south Pennines and Halifax. Inspector Hartley went that way, driving deeper and deeper into the bleak moorland. The Whitcliffs owned the farms all round the hall. Most of these had long been abandoned and stood as black ruins, savaged each winter more and more by the frost and snow. Washed away by the driving rain and wind, which blew constantly. The moors had a grim and sodden outlook even on the brightest day.

The hall was also ruinous, though attempts were being made to restore it. By contrast, the Mausoleum was in good condition with a high electric fence running round it. Where the drive left the main road for the hall, a recently erected notice warned off trespassers announcing that guard dogs patrolled the grounds. Inspector Hartley drove past the notice and parked his battered Ford behind the hall. There was another car there. A brand new white Jag.

Hartley walked the perimeter of the fence till he reached a gap. A well worn path headed for it from the garden used by tramps. It came straight from the main road across the intervening moorland.

As he picked his way carefully through mounds of debris and weeds, he saw something move inside the building, but when he looked again there was nothing there. He couldn’t be sure but he thought he’d seen two faces peering down through a window on the second floor.
Much of the portico over the main door had collapsed, but the heavy pillars remained with their attendant sphinxes. The huge doors were also still intact, one swinging drunkenly in the wind, the other creaking on wayward hinges.

Nearly all the windows had gone, and those on the first floor had been boarded up. There was scaffolding at the far end where it was being restored, and there were other signs of recent improvement. He was about to move on when he was startled by a raven screeching loudly as it left a chimney high above. It circled round him menacingly then flew off towards the Mausoleum.

Over the doors was the Whitcliff coat-of-arms. It re-appeared in various parts of the hall and was conspicuous on the Mausoleum. One of the emblazons was familiar. The shield had two bars. The higher charged with three raised cobras. The lower with three pyramids. Underneath were some hieroglyphics and a motto which had worn away.

Hartley made a mental note of it and stepped inside, to be immediately attacked by a brindled terrier. It ran from a room adjoining the hallway, snapping at his heels. The windows there had been boarded up and a figure emerged from the gloom to call off the dog, but the way it had attacked left Hartley in no doubt the brute had been deliberately set on him.

The man stood in the shadow of the doorway with his hands in his pockets enjoying the spectacle. He wore dirty corduroy riding breeks and leather gaiters, a greasy black jacket and a greasier waistcoat. His shirt was collarless and he’d a red neckerchief round his neck. His face was swarthy and unshaved. He could have been a gypsy.

He stood insolently a moment smiling to himself. Then he called the dog off and said, “What yer want, mister? D’yer know yer trespassing?”

Inspector Hartley took out his ID. “I’m Inspector Hartley from the Keighworth police,” said Blake. The other gave it the merest glance and curled his lip.

“If yer ’d ha’ said that first, instead o’ creepin’ in here without permission, it’d ha’ saved a deal o’ bother,” said the man surlily. “Yer might ha’ got hurt. I thought yer were one o’ them tramps that kips ’ere. They’re a bloody pest. Had the place alight once and have knocked it about summat rotten, they have.”

He was right. Floorboards had been ripped up and the doors smashed for firewood. Rusty tin cans lay strewn about. There was a stench of stale urine and worse. The man had been clearing up when Blake entered.

“Come for owt special?” asked the stranger.

“No,” said Inspector Hartley. “Just thought I’d look around. I’ve always wanted to know what’s in here. Old houses interest me.”

“Well now yer know,” said the man.

“You work here?” said Blake.

“Aye,” said the other. “I’m t’ keeper, so to speak. So was me dad and grandad before me.”

“And your name ?”asked Hartley.

“Blackwell. Silas Blackwell. I daresay you’ll ‘ave heard of me. I work for Mr Whitcliff who owns this place. I live in t’cottage yonder.”

He came into the daylight and pointed through the open door to one of the broken down farmhouses. Inspector Hartley could see him more clearly now. He’d weasel eyes which missed nothing. “Mind if I look around?” asked Hartley.

The other shrugged his shoulders. “Please yerself. Ther’s nowt much to see. An’ watch where yer go. The place is falling from together. I’d best go wi’ yer.”

The inspector walked over the main part of the hall with Blackwell whose terrier was at his heels the whole time. The hall had been lavishly built. There were ornate fireplaces in every room and delicately plastered ceilings; all in the style of the Pharaohs.

They wandered through room after room. Many of the doors were locked, but Blackwell had the keys to them all and let them in. Restoration work was going on in some of the rooms and Blackwell said it wasn’t safe to enter.

When Blake Hartley had been showed as much of the building as the other permitted, Blackwell said they ought to go back. There was no lighting and it was getting dark. They were at the end of a long corridor on the top floor at the end of which were two massive doors. Blackwell seemed keen to get the inspector away, but he asked what lay beyond.

“It’s getting dark,” the other repeated. “It’s noan safe for us to go on.”
But the way he said it made Hartley all the more determined to see what was behind the doors. He insisted on entering.

“All right,” said Blackwell sullenly. “If yer must.”

He pulled out his bunch of keys as they tramped the length of the corridor. The lock opened easily enough. The room was evidently well maintained and well used, which was strange when so much of the building was in ruin.

Why, he didn’t know, but Hartley shivered involuntarily. In the failing light he could make out murals all round the walls, figures of Egyptian gods and goddesses. Animal and bird-headed. One with a crocodile head. They were huge and over-powering. They were also in excellent condition and in the half-light they seemed alive.

In the middle of the room was a section of floor lighter than the rest. Something had stood there for a long time but had recently been removed. Hartley walked over and glanced up. They were directly under the vast dome. Two panels in it let in what was left of the livid sunset outside. By night, the place might have been an observatory, so clearly could he see the sky.

But there was more to the place. His priestly instinct told him he was in the presence of something evil. the atmosphere was so claustrophobic. The figures on the wall seemed to move as the light faded. Seemed to become alive, as if they were moving round and round him in some weird procession to hem him in. And as he stood there, in the centre of the room, their eyes stared unblinking from all sides.

There were bits of black candlewax on the floor all round the edges of the oblong where he stood. And there were darker stains. Brown and deep red.

“Looks like someone’s been bleeding badly here,” said the inspector, kneeling down.

“Probably one o’ t’ workmen. They’ve been doing this room up,” grunted Blackwell.

He pulled in his dog viciously. It was sniffing at the stains. As he yanked it back, it brushed against the inspector’s legs, leaving a wadge of hair He looked again at the lighter patch of flooring. Whatever had been there had been moved recently, and it was no workman’s bench as Blackwell suggested. That wouldn’t have been there long enough to hide the floor from the sunlight. And the candlewax? Blackwell had no idea what it was. Put it down to the workmen again.

When Hartley commented on the figures on the walls, Blackwell said they’d always been there. As long as he could remember. Old Sir Joshua had had them painted “He were mad on owt Egyptian. So were his son and Mr Jason. It runs in the blood so to speak,” he said.

“I should think it does,” said Blake, and looked at the stains on the floor.

“I think we ought to be off,” said Blackwell, jangling his keys. “I hope yer’ve seen all yer wanted,” he said as they groped their way downstairs. By now the light had almost gone and the place was dark.
But when they got outside, Blackwell switched on some floodlights, explaining they came from the Mausoleum and when the hall was restored and newly wired, full electricity would be installed.

“Then Mr Whitcliff intends living here?” said Hartley.

“It’s allus been his plan to come back,” replied Blackwell.

“Restore it to its former glory, eh?”

“Yer could say that,” grunted the other. “Aye. Yer could say that.”

They left by a door opposite the Mausoleum, which was floodlit and guarded by a high electric fence. Inside it he could see a prowler and his guard-dog, a white Alsatian. The security guard shouted a greeting to Blackwell, who escorted Hartley all the way to his car. The white Jag which had been parked when he came had gone.

He asked whose it was.

“T’boss o’ t’ builders. He comes reg’lar to check what they’ve done,” said Blackwell.

Inspector Hartley didn’t believe him but gave him full marks for his slick reply. For all his dourness, the man was glib. Too glib. Too ready with slick answers. Hartley thanked him and drove off. He was glad to get away. The floodlighting threw into relief the black shadows of the building and its place of the dead. In his mirror, the inspector saw its keeper watch him leave, standing stockstill with his dog by his side till he was out of sight.

He reached the main road and drove till he was well clear. Then he pulled into a lay-by and carefully pulled the dog hairs off his trousers and put them in his wallet. They were white. Like the dog hairs found on Manasas’ clothes. If Dr Dunwell matched them up, Blackwell would have some explaining to do, and that would take the smug smile off his face.