Badman: The Ghost of King John

By Peter Tye

A Norfolk Manor House is believed to be haunted by the evil spirit of King John.

A ghostly tale of lost treasure, treachery and treason!
On the 5th october 1216, King John is in Norfolk, in the port of Lynn. The name will change to King's Lynn after his death and he is already suffering the onset of a fatal illness. Also on the 5th October, but 800 years later in the year 2016, the Demple family move into Lamford Manor. It is an exciting day for them. They feel good about their new home and living with history, but that is before they discover the ghost, or to be more precise, before the ghost discovers them!
Edna Catchpole, the long serving housekeeper, anticipates another fast turnaround. Most tenants flee the old house within a few months! But 13 year old Fiona and 10 year old Nick have other ideas. They make a pact with Edna to confront the ghost and coerce their great aunt Daphne into the team. They find secret stairs, a maze of tunnels beneath the house and a skeleton. They walk through one tunnel which they think may lead them to the church and it does. They find themselves in the crypt of the Lamford church of 1216!
The adventure begins! An adventure shaped by the final days of King John and the dangers. superstitions and intrigues of early medieval England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Tye
• Release date: Sep 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370874699

Peter Tye

There are quite a few Peter Tyes lurking around in the UK, across the pond in America and down under in Australia and New Zealand, but as far as I know, I'm the only one daft enough to believe that it is possible to earn a living from writing children's books. So for the avoidance of doubt, my name is Peter Geoffrey Tye. I grew-up in the Hampshire village of Hartley Wespall and joined the Royal Navy at the age of 15. After 8 years in the navy, I went on to have a career in marketing and writing for business, before producing Colin Reeder's much loved Little Red Tractor stories for television. Unfortunately, Colin died before we had the required number of episodes, so I wrote new stories to keep Little Red Tractor's animated wheels turning.

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Badman: The Ghost of King John

by

Peter Tye

Copyright Peter Tye 2016

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction based on historic records of the events. Some of the characters lived but personalities attributed to them is the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance of any character, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental

To the memory of Ian Weekley

Historian & Good Friend

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE: St. Faith's Priory

CHAPTER 1: The Old Manor House

CHAPTER 2: The New People

CHAPTER 3: The Old People

CHAPTER 4: Computer Trouble

CHAPTER 5: The Trouble with King John

CHAPTER 6: Nick Tangles With The Ghost

CHAPTER 7: Thrown in a Dungeon (9th October 1216)

CHAPTER 8: A Light Touch (10th October 2016)

CHAPTER 9: Great Aunt Daphne

CHAPTER 10: The Wrong Surcoat (10th October 1216)

CHAPTER 11: Measure For Measure (10th October 2016)

CHAPTER 12: Bound For Danger (11th October 1216)

CHAPTER 13: Down The Well (12th October 2016)

CHAPTER 14: Dangerous Sands (12th October 1216)

CHAPTER 15: A Walk Back In Time (12th October 2016 /1216)

CHAPTER 16: Lamford Great Hall (12th October 2016 /1216)

CHAPTER 17: To Poison A King

CHAPTER 18: Stairs Found And Potion Taken

CHAPTER 19: Stepping Down In Time (October 13th 2016/1216)

CHAPTER 20: In Pursuit of King John

CHAPTER 21: Riding With A Medieval Knight

CHAPTER 22: Talk Of The Devil

CHAPTER 23: News Of The Baggage Train (October 14th 1216)

CHAPTER 24: Doubt And Deceit (15th October 1216)

CHAPTER 25: Sleaford And Newark Castle

CHAPTER 26: The Odour of Death (17th October 1216)

CHAPTER 27: Arriving And Leaving

CHAPTER 28: Lost In The Storm

CHAPTER 29: The Race To Lamford

CHAPTER 30: Defenders In The Church Tower

CHAPTER 31: Through The Flames

CHAPTER 32: Loose Ends

PROLOGUE: ST. FAITH'S PRIORY

Brother Cedric edged his chair towards the dying embers in the hearth as the wind rattled and whined in the chimney. It was a sound not dissimilar to that of the abbot’s voice, although he would never say so. Brother Cedric was grateful for the privileges the abbot granted his advancing years, most of all for allowing him to move his scribing table into the calefactory, next to the great fireplace.

It was late. Candles were burning low. But there was one more entry he must make in the good abbot's chronicle that day. He dipped his quill, hunched his aching body over the parchment and began to scratch across the rough surface.

The year of our Lord, twelve hundred and sixteen was a year of great moment for the county of Norfolk. At Michaelmas the King John was at Bishops Lynn, from whence he arranged supplies for his northern strongholds and took Sir Ralph Alleyn, steward of the Manor of Lamford for William Marshal, earl of Pembroke, to his bidding. The King John was sorely ill and men proceeded against him with treachery. Sir Ralph Alleyn was good and strong and with help from God Almighty, frustrated their wickedness. The village of Lamford suffered much by their hand, with the guilty remaining in its thrall, their image still seen: though such men are long dead.

Brother Cedric shivered as he completed the entry, not from the chill which seeped into his bones, but the recollection of strange happenings and bedevilment in that unholy place. He intoned a prayer to save the monastery from spectral forms of evil, ending in a low musical sigh. Man should not dwell on such things; it was time to sand the parchment and rest. At the abbot’s behest he ignored the call to Vespers but for the sake of his spiritual well being, he would rise to attend Matins.

CHAPTER 1: THE OLD MANOR HOUSE

Edna Catchpole was of the opinion that the ghostly goings on at Lamford Manor could be explained. She held many opinions and few would argue with her. Some may kindly describe her as a large woman, others, unkindly, as fat. But they were the sort of people who mistook size for obesity. The only flabby part of Edna Catchpole was her double chin which wobbled as she polished, keeping time with the music from her portable radio and the long jade earrings dancing beneath a fringe of frizzy, yellow hair.

Over the years, Edna had learnt to cope with the resident ghost in Lamford Manor, but it was fast approaching that time of the year when it was at its most active. And always at this end of the rambling old house! She had dusted the grand staircase from top to bottom and was working her way up again, polishing the banister rails vigorously with a hard beeswax polish. She had been cleaning lady to the various occupants of the old manor house for over forty years and another of her opinions, was that old wood required the nourishment which only a beeswax polish could provide. So although the staircase was a recent addition, being just over 200 years old, it still merited her beeswax treatment.

Arriving at the top of the staircase, she looked down the gleaming banister rails with a deep sense of satisfaction. Then, taking a deep breath, turned to face the medieval staircase which wound its way up to the third floor. She shuddered at the thought of the dreadful room up there, but the stairs had to be dusted and polished, everything had to be clean and tidy for the new people.

There was no one else in the big house to criticise her cleaning methods, yet Edna Catchpole looked furtively over her shoulder before reaching into the plastic toolbox which contained all her cleaning materials. She scratched around amongst the dusters, brushes, tins of anti-corrosive and abrasive liquids. Then, almost apologetically, pulled out a can of spray polish.

Needs must when the devil or whatever it is, drives, she muttered, as she crept up the stairs with a stealth and agility which belied her age and considerable girth. She lay on the stairs and stretched her left arm forward to aim the spray at the worm-ridden top step, but as her finger tensed over the button, the latch on the attic door rattled. Edna Catchpole froze and the colour drained from her ruddy Norfolk cheeks. The latch rattled again! She tried to move, but her muscles would not respond to the urgent message from her brain telling her to get off those stairs - and fast! Then, with a loud metallic click, the latch lifted and the door slowly began to swing open, creaking on hinges protesting from lack of use. A blast of cold air swept over her and at last, her muscles responded. She jerked into a standing position, but a precarious toe-hold in flimsy slippers was not enough to support her weight. The slippers buckled, slid off the edge of the stair and she pitched forward. Fortunately, an ample bosom stopped her chin from hitting the top step, but her face was close to the open doorway and she found herself looking into the room along the grooves between thick oak floorboards. The floor was bare. The room empty. Another blast of cold air swept over her. She thought briefly about going into the room to see if a window was open, but a strange stale smell wafted over her. Edna Catchpole tested the scent with a nose which could detect a cast off sock from twenty yards. It smelt like damp old fur, perhaps someone had left a coat or something hanging behind the door? Who was last in there? Before she could pursue that line of thought, a swirl of dust appeared by the skirting board on the other side of the room. A small whirlwind was trying to lift the dust from the floor. And it was succeeding! The dust swirled into the air and moved quickly across the room. Choking particles made her eyes water and she had a blurred vision of the swirling mass as it took human form. Now it was over her and stretching down. Long fingers clawing at the air, reaching down, searching, searching, for her!

Gravity came to the aid of a terrified Edna Catchpole. Fourteen and a half stone of cleaning lady could not stay suspended for ever; not on a polished staircase, even one polished with spray from a can! Slowly, like the launch of an enormous ocean liner, she began to slide, gaining so much speed down the winding stairs, that she hurtled off the bottom step and across the landing, hitting the cleaning box, which bounced down the grand staircase. For a moment it looked as if she would follow as she see-sawed across the top step. But, with a supreme effort she rolled onto one side, grabbed hold of the banister rail and hauled herself upright.

Most people would have fled after such an experience, but Edna Catchpole was made of sterner stuff. With hands on hips she glared up the winding stairs, her face flushed with anger. You won’t get rid of me like you have everyone else! I’ve seen and heard your goings-on for over forty years, she shouted. It don’t bother me, I’ll sort you out! But her parting shot, nobody messes with Edna Catchpole, was whispered and not very convincing.

There was a long silence; then, the attic door creaked and the latch clicked softly over the catch as the door pulled shut. At the same time her portable radio abruptly switched itself off.

Edna Catchpole was frightened but her fear of the unknown could not override her dread of leaving an untidy house. Nothing but nothing would stop her from retrieving the duster and can of spray polish which had slipped from her grasp during her involuntary slide down the stairs. Now they stood like beacons to her fear on the fifth stair down from that dreadful attic door. On all fours and keeping as low to the stairs as nature would allow, she inched up towards the marooned items. Reaching out with her left hand she managed to pinch the duster between two fingers. Now for the can! At full stretch she could just touch it with the fingertips of her right hand, but as she tried to grip the smooth surface the can rolled away. She tried again, but this time it rolled out of reach before her outstretched fingers had even made contact. A cackle of high-pitched, scornful laughter echoed around the ancient rafters. Edna Catchpole’s yellow frizzy hair straightened and stood on end. With a determined lunge, she managed to flip the can towards the centre of the winding stairway where it teetered on the narrowing tread before dropping with a clatter to the landing below.

Repeating her ship-launching act, but this time in a more controlled fashion, she slid down the stairs, standing as soon as her feet touched the landing. Scooping up the can and the radio, which immediately turned itself back on, she moved quickly down the grand staircase, retrieving the cleaning box and the scattered contents along the way. She sprinted through the Great Hall. A hop and a skip was all she needed to take her across the full width of the dining room. Then, a dash through the kitchen and she arrived at the back door. She switched off the radio threw it and the cleaning box into the utility room, and made a fast exit. Cycling up the gravel lane and out onto the road she focussed on the front wheel, her legs pounding up and down as she urged the heavy old bicycle to the brow of the hill. It was only then, at the start of the long free-wheel to the village, she dare look back towards the old manor house. With the dark clouds of an autumn storm gathering behind the high Tudor chimneys, it stood brooding and sinister.

CHAPTER 2: THE NEW PEOPLE

What do you mean; you’ve lost your snake?

The removals van veered into a lay-by, much to the relief of the stream of cars frustrated by the driver’s strict observance of the speed limit. There were three people in the cab. Dave the driver, Bert the driver’s mate and Nick, the ten-year-old son of the Demple Family, who were to be the new occupants of Lamford Manor.

Bert was bouncing up and down on his seat in frenzied panic. It was on my lap – a snake – on my lap!

Steady on, Bert. Now what’s all this about a snake? Dave directed his question to Nick.

It’s Ludwig, replied Nick. Bert was asleep so I took the lid off the box to give him some air.

And I woke up to find a snake on my lap! complained an aggrieved Bert.

You shouldn’t have brushed him off, said Nick. Ludwig’s quite harmless.

I wouldn’t trust anyone called Ludwig, shuddered Bert, and definitely not a snake.

Nick was about to tell Bert that a grass-snake couldn’t possibly do him any harm, when Dave held up a hand. That’s enough, he said decisively, we’ll accept that Ludwig is not dangerous, but this van is not moving until we find him.

Bert opened the van door.

For heaven’s sake Bert! shouted Dave, Close that door or we’ll have to search half of Lincolnshire!

Nick unclipped his seatbelt and slid down to the cab floor.

It’s alright. I’ve found him. He’s trying to slide up Bert’s trouser leg!

With a yelp of fear, Bert opened the door and leapt from the cab. Dave laughed.

Now you go easy on him young Nick, he’s easily frit, is Bert.

Bert looked on from outside as Nick put Ludwig back into the box. I’m not easily frit; I just don’t like snakes and creepy-crawly things.

Nick was glad he had asked to ride in the van rather than in the car with the rest of the family. Mum and dad had said yes, but his sister Fiona thought he was mad to ride in a draughty old van, adding that she would be happy to have the back seat of the car to herself without him and his matchboxes and jars full of nasty insects. Fiona had turned very strange since she started wearing tights and lipstick. She was no longer the sister who thrived on the idea of frightening one of mum’s snooty friends with a frog, spider, snake or any other creepy creature he could lay his hands on. Bert eyed the box suspiciously as he clambered back in the cab. Nick thought it best to apologise.

Sorry about that, Bert. It never occurred to me that you might not like Ludwig. My sister Fiona doesn’t like him either.

I don’t blame her, said Bert.

Oh, she used to, enthused Nick. She used to help out with my practical jokes. The one on Gad was the best.

Who or what is a Gad? asked Dave, as he changed gear and steered the removals van back onto the main road.

It's code for Great Aunt Daphne, replied Nick, trying to suppress a chuckle. We put Slimeball into her gin and tonic.

I’ve got a feeling I could regret asking this, said Bert.Who, or what is Slimeball?

Nick pulled a jam jar from his anarak pocket. It had holes punctured in the metal lid and several lettuce leaves crammed inside. Bert reluctantly took it from Nick, held it up and peered into it.

What am I looking for? Urggh! It’s a slug!

Ah, but not any old slug, said Nick, Slimeball was hand-picked. Look at the shading down his side. He’s perfectly camouflaged for nestling amongst the ice in a gin and tonic.

Dave laughed. You mean, Great Aunt Daphne didn’t know Slimeball was in her gin and tonic?

Not until she tried to swallow him, grinned Nick.

Bert quickly handed back the jam jar and put a hand over his mouth. You’ll have to stop again, Dave. I think I’m going to be sick.

Stop being a woos, Bert, said Dave dismissively. So what happened, Nick? Did she swallow the slug?

She began to choke, grinned Nick, but dad gave her a whack on the back and good old Slimeball came out like a bullet from a gun, whistled past the vicar’s nose and landed safely in the shrubbery.

Dave laughed. I wouldn’t want to be on the end of one of your practical jokes. What else have you got in that box? Bert shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "Can’t we get away from creepy crawlies? There must be something else we can talk about?

History, I love history, said Nick. A silence settled over the cab. Dave concentrated on his driving and Bert closed his eyes. Nick liked being in the van. The cab was high up and provided a good view. Trouble was, there was not much to see, just a never-ending procession of flat, featureless fields. He had a thought

What about Hereward the Wake, didn’t he live in the fens, Bert?

Bert opened one eye. How should I know, I’m not that old, ask Dave.

But we are in the fens?

That’s right enough, said Dave, concentrating on the road ahead, but Hereward the Wake worked out of Ely. From what I remember of my history he was a crafty bloke; knew the fens like the back of his hand. Ran circles round the Normans.

He was Saxon then? asked Bert.

Of noble birth, said Dave

Nick heard Bert ask Dave if he had ever had one of those family-tree things done; only he was sure he had royal blood coursing through his veins. Dave said that in Bert’s case it would be more of a trickle. Nick smiled to himself, but heard no more. He was drifting off into one of his daydreams and the fen landscape was beginning to change.

Swirling mists with horses and men struggling to seek out firm ground, then, barely visible through the reeds, a glimpse of Hereward the Wake. He is sitting in the middle of a large open space. At last they have caught the elusive Saxon. Spurring their horses on they find firmer footing and gain speed. They are moving in for the kill. Close enough now to make out the features on his strong rugged face. He seems to be in deep thought. He has not seen them. Run Hereward, run!

But they are close now and there is no where to run, the Normans have cornered their most formidable foe. There will be no escape for Hereward the Wake. He will be hacked down and left to rot in this god forsaken place. Swords drawn the Normans bay like hungry hounds as they move in for the kill. He sees them, but too late, in a matter of seconds they will be upon him.

Hereward the Wake gets slowly to his feet. He is a giant of a man! No one had told them he was so tall. He is turning his back on them, attempting to get away but there is no chance. But what is this? He’s walking on water! In the split second before disaster strikes, the leading rider sees the danger, but not in time to stop! His horse surges forward, up to its neck in the treacherous swamp. Others follow, scrabbling, scrambling, fighting; trying to stand on each other in an attempt to break free, but all to no avail. One by one the swamp silences the screams of horses and men.

Thirty yards away, Hereward is on firm ground taking off his stilts. Slinging them over his broad shoulders he strides off towards his camp of refuge, deep in the Lincolnshire fens. William the Conqueror may have taken the Isle of Ely, but he will never take Hereward the Wake.

The image of his hero striding towards a distant camp, slowly morphed into the reality of a tractor and trailer driving towards a grain silo.

Penny for your thoughts, boy, Bert was grinning at him. You’ve been looking outta that window for an age. What can you see that I can’t?

Nick snapped back to reality and smiled at Bert. I was imagining what it could have been like in Hereward the Wake’s time.

And what was it like? asked Bert, showing a degree of interest which Nick had not anticipated. He hesitated over an answer; the van was at a standstill with road work traffic lights showing against them. Dave joined the conversation.

Don’t you tell him, young Nick. What’s in your imagination is none of his business.

I don’t mind, Dave said Nick, I often go off into a daydream. In this one I was looking through a swirling mist and I could see lots of Norman soldiers on horseback chasing Hereward the Wake.

Did they catch him? asked Bert

Of course not, laughed Nick. He led them into a swamp and they were all sucked under, men and horses. I watched it happen and heard the screams of the men and the horses. It was quite dreadful really.

Bert shuddered and looked out at the flat landscape. You saw all that happening out there? No wonder you was quiet.

Dave laughed. You’ve given him the heebie-jeebies, Nick. We’ll have trouble when we get to your new house, what with that being haunted an all.

Har, but that’s the trouble, said Bert. It’s not a new house, it’s hundreds of years old. That’s why it’s haunted.

Dave grinned at Nick. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had talking Bert into this job. He’s scared witless when it comes to that old house, that’s why we’ve only got your downstairs furniture in this van. Bert won’t venture upstairs; in fact, I’ll be lucky if I get him to carry anything further than the entrance hall.

Well, if you knew what I know, you wouldn’t even go that far, retorted Bert.

Nick could not contain his excitement. Wow that’s fantastic! A real haunted house, that’s incredible, terrific!

More terrifying than terrific, you can take my word on that, muttered Bert.

Take no notice of him, said Dave. Fact is he’s never seen anything; only going by what his cousin Dan told him and I doubt he’s seen anything either.

I’m not worried, said Nick enthusiastically, I would love to see a ghost.

Bert turned to look at him, he was clearly frightened. You say that now, he said, but it will be a different story when you come face to face with something horrible, like Dan’s wife has.

Come off it Bert, laughed Dave. Any ghost would run a mile if it came face to face with Edna.

Who’s Edna? asked Nick

Edna Catchpole, my cousin Dan’s wife, She cleans and looks after Lamford Manor. Been there for years. Only one that’ll work there. As far as she’s concerned it’s her place, so I’d get on the right side of her if I was you.

Not that she’s got a side, said Dave, being as round as she is.

Bert laughed. True, she is a bit on the large side is, Edna, but she’ll be ideal for hiding behind when that ghost appears.

As they chortled, Nick began to lose interest.

I think you’re having me on. I bet there's no ghost.

Har, there’s a ghost alright, said Bert, and from what Edna says, October seems to be his favourite month.

Nick wasn’t listening. He took a matchbox from his anorak pocket and slid it open to look at his pet beetle. Could the ghost of Lamford Manor be an enormous beetle? And if it was a ghostly beetle, would it be white when it scuttled towards you along a dark corridor? He was off on yet another daydream.

Here you are, boy. This is Lamford. Bert’s comment brought Nick out of his dream world.

That was quick, have we crossed the river yet?

Hint you been taking notice young Nick? We crossed over the river when we drove round the Mill a couple of hundred yards back, said Dave. Here’s your new home. He manoeuvred the van carefully through a gateway, into a narrow driveway. Jess was bounding towards them, barking excitedly. Dave stopped the van as Jess jumped up at the passenger door, looking for Nick. Bert opened the door and put his hand down to make a fuss of her, tickling her white chest. "She’s got a posh front, boy, what make is she?

Black labrador and dalmatian cross, said Nick as Jess jumped over Bert and licked his ear.

That’s daft, said Dave. Who ever heard of black spots on a black dog? They laughed as Dave drove the van up to the big old manor house.

Mum, Dad and Fiona were waving a welcome from the shallow steps leading up to the front entrance and standing with them, but not waving, was a large woman with a mop of bright yellow frizzy hair. That, said Bert is Edna Catchpole.

According to Fiona, Edna Catchpole was impossible. She was telling mum and dad where they should put the furniture, objected to them using an electric kettle because the Aga cooker was always on. And, worst of all, she had taken the key from her bedroom door, because if it was locked, she would not be able to clean properly.

She goes with the house, apparently, Fiona said over her shoulder as she led Nick up a wide staircase, been here for over forty years. These are the main stairs, or, 'The Grand Staircase', as she calls it. There are stairs at the other end of the house leading to mum and dad’s room and some other bedrooms. I’ll show you those as we walk through; it’s a rambling old place. Quite a maze really.

Nick looked around appreciatively. Wow, what a house! Has Mrs Catchpole told you about the ghost yet?

No, probably because there is no ghost.

Bert wouldn’t agree with you, said Nick with a grin. His cousin is married to Mrs Catchpole and he reckons she is the only one who can deal with the ghost. Bert’s scared to come in, that’s why he and Dave are putting everything from the van into the hall.

Fiona gave a derisory snort. Huh, well I can tell you, they’re putting everything in the hall, until mum decides where different pieces have to go.

I thought Mrs Catchpole decided that, teased Nick, moving quickly out of reach as they stepped onto the landing. Fiona ignored his jibe and pointed to another set of stairs, winding upward from the other side of the landing. The Grand Staircase replaced medieval stairs. That’s what’s left of them. They lead up to a room in the attic. We can’t go up there because the floor boards are rotten, according to Mrs Catchpole.

I’m getting the feeling you don’t like Mrs Catchpole, said Nick, placing a foot on the bottom step of the old winding stairs. These stairs seem alright to me. A bit crumbly on the edges, but the step looks solid enough. I bet it’s oak. He went up another three steps, stamping his feet as he went.

You’re not to go any further, Mrs Catchpole said so.

We’re not going to take any notice of her, are we?

We have to, dad said so.

They’ll never know. We can take a quick look. Nick disappeared as he climbed the winding stairs. Fiona shouted after him.

Nick! Come down at once! I’m responsible for you at this end of the house. Mum said so.

I can see the attic door from here. It looks really ancient. It’s got fantastic iron hinges. Come and have a look, Fi. You should see the size of the key, it’s enormous!

Fiona’s curiosity got the better of her. She crept cautiously up the stairs and peered past Nick towards the door. He turned and gave her a mischievous grin.

Shall we take a peep inside?

Fiona felt uneasy. I think we should go down.

Come on Fi, it’s only another few steps. As he took another step towards the door, Fiona snapped, grabbed hold of Nick’s shirt and pulled him back.

When I say no, I mean no!

Back on the landing Nick taunted her for being too scared, which she denied. She had a sense of responsibility, which was why mum and dad put her in charge. She was about to show him his room, when Edna Catchpole bustled up the stairs.

Those stairs and the attic room are out of bounds, have you told Master Nick, Miss Fiona? The floors up there are rotten, so we don’t go into the attic room. It’s for our own safety.

Fiona has told me, said Nick, careful not to promise that he would not venture up there. He had decided to sneak up to take a look when no one was around. How old is this place, Mrs Catchpole?

Parts of it date back to when the church was built and that was eleven hundred and something or other.

Wow! That’s fantastic! Where’s the church? I didn’t see it when we drove through the village.

You wouldn’t, said Edna Catchpole. It lies well back from the road, next to the river. You can see it from Miss Fiona’s room.

To Fiona’s obvious annoyance, she barged past and opened her bedroom door to usher Nick in. The window opposite the door looked out over the church, the river and the water meadows beyond.

You’ve got a great view, Fi.

Of course I have, I had first choice. She sounded sharp; unhappy with Mrs Catchpole for taking over the tour of the house. "I’ll leave it for you to show Nick