Free This House is Haunted by John Boyne Page B

window next to a loaf of nut-infused bread that had been delivered of several slices already. Pausing for a moment, wondering what I should do next, my attention was takenby the rather fine arched Romanesque window and, looking through, I observed a portly, middle-aged lady wearing what appeared to be a maid’s uniform marching along the gravel in the direction of Heckling’s stables, a deeply filled bag in her left hand, a coat and hat adorning her ample frame, and I wondered whether this was the Mrs. Livermore to whom Isabella had referred the night before. I had failed to ask who she was at the time, assuming that she was some type of housekeeper, but the ensemble that this lady was dressed in suggested otherwise.
    I stepped across to the pantry door but struggled with the key in the lock, which was stiff and unwilling to turn, much like the windows in my bedroom which, when tried again in the morning, had proved impossible to open. I forced the door, however, and finally emerged into the grounds just as the lady turned the corner of the house and disappeared from sight. I called out, expecting her to hear me and retrace her steps, and when she did not, I followed at rather a good pace, determined to catch up with her, but when I turned the corner myself a few moments later she had vanished entirely. I looked around in astonishment—there did not seem to be anywhere that she could have gone, nor could she have made her way to the far end of the perimeter in such a short time, but the fact remained that she had been there one moment and had disappeared the next. I glanced to my left, through the clump of trees; the horse, Winnie, was standing patiently outside the stables, staring at me, fixing me with a look that unsettled me. Confused, I could think of nothing else to do but turn round and make my way back to the pantry door.
    To my frustration it had closed and locked itself from the inside—how it could possibly have done this I did not know, as I had left the door wide open and there was absolutely no breeze to push it shut again—and this left me with no choicebut to walk round to the front door of Gaudlin Hall, which was mercifully unlocked, and make my way back through the house to where I had begun.
    I sat down at the kitchen table and frowned, wondering what I should do next. Was I to prepare my own breakfast? Had the children eaten? Were they even awake or was I expected to rouse them too? I had almost decided to go back upstairs and knock on Isabella’s door when, to my horror, a pair of hands grabbed my ankles from beneath the table, much like the wicked creature in my fantasy had the night before, but before I could scream or leap from my seat, a small boy appeared from beneath and he scampered out with a mischievous grin on his face.
    “Eustace,” I said, shaking my head and holding a hand to my chest. “You gave me a fright.”
    “You didn’t see me under there, did you?”
    “I didn’t,” I replied, smiling. It was impossible to be angry with him. “I thought I was alone.”
    “You’re never alone at Gaudlin Hall,” he said. “Miss Harkness used to say that she would give a month’s salary for a day’s peace and quiet.”
    “I prefer company,” I told him. “If I’d wanted solitude I would have stayed in London. But look at you,” I added after a moment, standing up and taking him in from head to toe. “Don’t you look smart!”
    It was true; he looked very fine indeed. He was dressed in a neat pair of white trousers, a white shirt and tie and a blue serge jacket that made me want to reach out and stroke the fabric in much the same way that Mr. Dickens’ waistcoat, a week earlier, had also made me long to experience the sensation of such expensive material against my fingertips. He had washedtoo; I could smell the rich scent of carbolic soap that emanated from his body. And his hair was neatly combed, parted at the side and held in place with a little pomade. He might have been