A Chance Discovery

My eyes searched for a relatively safe point of entry into the house. The floor in the burnt out room had collapsed into a cellar below. A long submerged memory surfaced in my mind. “Dr Malone,” I said, “I think I know where there's a key.” I walked briskly across the terrace and made my way to the front of the house. Dr Malone followed in silence. Reaching the now dirty and discoloured dark grey granite steps below the front door, I dropped to my knees and began to feel along the right hand flank of the top step.

“Ah ha!” I exclaimed, and pulled out an object coated in earth and grime. It was a large key! “I found it in a concealed groove, just under the lip of the step. It must've been the emergency key!” I said triumphantly.

Dr Malone walked to the Land Rover and returned with a rag and a can of WD40. “Let’s clean it up,” he said. The anticipation was growing in both of us. I set to work on cleaning the key, while Dr Malone put the nozzle of the can next to the key hole and pressed until the internal mechanism of the lock was liberally soaked with the WD40. The key cleaned up well; there was no rust as the metal had been galvanised. Dr Malone sprayed the lock again.

“OK. Let’s give it a try,” he said to me, now poised with the key. Hand slightly trembling, I inserted the key into the lock. I gripped it hard and twisted, but it would not turn. Producing a screwdriver, Dr Malone inserted the shaft through the metal loop at the end of the key. Using the screwdriver as a lever, he pushed hard. Slowly, the key began to turn - then there was a clunk. The lock was opened.

“Now try the door handle,” said Dr Malone, retreating down the steps. I grabbed the corroded brass doorknob with both hands, but it was stuck fast. Dr Malone returned with a massive wrench from the toolbox at the back of the Land Rover. A little spraying and heaving later, and the knob turned, but the door would not open.

“It may be bolted from the inside,” rumbled Dr Malone.
“That’s unlikely,” I replied. “Front doors are usually only bolted from the inside when people are at home.”

“All right,” said Dr, “It’s probably stuck in the lintel. Stand back young man.” And with that, he charged at the door, shoulder on. The door burst open and in he went. I stood there, momentarily stunned. The door had given way quite easily and Dr Malone’s charge propelled him forward with such force that he lost his footing and fell. Flipped onto his back, he slid along the floor. I entered the house, my heart beating faster. At last I was home!

Dr Malone was not a happy man. Sitting up, his face crimson red with fury, molten magma began to surge through his veins; the eruption was not long in following! “That's the second fecking time that’s happened!” he roared. His voice blasted through the house like an explosion. It was only my face in the doorway that stopped him form unleashing a volley of profanities.

“Lucky I brought the hip flask!” he muttered, reaching into an inside jacket pocket. After assisting the stricken academic to his feet, I helped dust him down. His slide along the floor had cut a track through the thick dust, revealing a beautiful white Italian marble floor.

“The owners of this house must have been quite wealthy,” concluded Dr Malone, as he stood admiring the grandeur of the hall. The magnificence of the old staircase still shone through the grime of neglect. “OK,” he said, taking another fortifying swig from his hip flask, “let’s stick together and move through the house room by room. If any room looks unsafe we will not enter - Agreed!”

I nodded my head and we began the quest. “We’ll start with the ground floor,” said Dr Malone. “Let’s skip the cellar. I can testify that there is nothing down there but soot and charcoal!”

The hall was very spacious with the staircase centrally placed within it. There were large solid wood panelled doors to either side of the stairwell, all closed. We started on the right side of the hallway. The first door creaked open to reveal an empty room with a high ornately plastered ceiling. The air was cold and damp with a lingering musty odour. Everything had been stripped from the room except the imposing white marble fireplace. At the front of the room there was a big casement window, its glass dull and layered with grime. Some of the panes were cracked or smashed.

“I think this may have been the sitting room,” I muttered, sadly.
“Nothing in here son,” boomed Dr Malone in the hollow emptiness of the room.

We worked our way through all the rooms on the ground floor; the ravaged drawing room, the morning room, the dinning room, the study, the kitchen and scullery. The rooms were stripped of everything except their peeling wallpaper and, fireplaces. A chilly, musty, desolation pervaded everything.

We mounted the staircase, leaving foot tracks in the dust. It was the same story upstairs. All the rooms were empty, save one. “This was once a library,” I said, remembering the rows of books and stacks of papers. All that now remained were a couple of large empty oak bookcases. Something drew me into the room. Dr Malone remained in the doorway looking aimlessly on. As far as he was concerned the search had been fruitless and it was time to leave. Inspecting the room carefully, I could see nothing of interest. With a sinking heart I turned to leave, but something caught my eye. Protruding from the back of one of the bookcases was a yellowed piece of plastic. It looked like nothing, but I felt a sudden compulsion, almost as if I was being pushed by some unseen force to investigate further. Walking over to the bookcase, I found it surprisingly heavy, but managed to heave it a few centimetres forward. A large pouch fell to the ground.

Dr Malone dropped me back at Arcadia Drive in High Wycombe, were I live with my adopted parents at weekends. “Let me know if you come up with anything interesting,” was Dr Malone’s parting comment as he drew away in the Land Rover. I dashed indoors. I could not wait to get to serious grips with the contents of the pouch and ran straight to my bedroom. The plastic tore as I ripped open the pouch. It was filled with old newspaper clippings. At last it looked like I may have some kind of a lead, a glimmer of hope.