walked steadily across the polished floorboards towards the library. Fiona went first, and pushed it open.
They stepped inside, peering nervously into the shadows.
Everything was exactly as they had seen it before, dust and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, Fiona’s father’s things laid out carefully on the green leather-topped desk, untouched, just as if he was about to reappear and take up his place again, doing whatever it was he was doing the day he died. It seemed to Samuel there was a heavy atmosphere in this room, some kind of tension or energy.
“Now what?” Fiona whispered.
He caught her eye. “We start looking, that’s what!”
Their voices sounded loud in the silence, and they glanced nervously over their shoulders.
Fiona pulled a crimson velvet footstool towards her, and sat down. Samuel was too intrigued to sit. He touched the spine of an old book with faded gold lettering embossed on its leather cover. “She said in the diary that it was a leather-bound volume,” he murmured. “We need to check every book on these shelves until we’re sure it isn’t here.”
They decided to take a wall each, and work through the books methodically.
“I don’t trust Charles,” Fiona whispered after a while, listening out for any sound in the corridor beyond. “He knows we’re up to something.”
“What if he comes back unexpectedly?” she added.
“We’ll worry about that if it happens,” Samuel said. To begin with they were quite hopeful. There were so many old volumes here, and every one that they slid from its place on the dusty shelves seemed like a distinct possibility. However, each time they inspected a book, they replaced it, disappointed. Catherine’s journal was proving very elusive.
“This is going to take hours,” Fiona sighed, gazing up at the ranks of books towering above her.
Samuel knew that too, but was trying not to despair. He didn’t want to give in so easily. What had seemed such a good idea when they started out was turning into a mammoth task. He’d been so certain they’d find something. It was too painful to give up now.
“We’ll just have to come back when we can, and keep looking,” he murmured.
“How can we do that? The house is never empty like this. Not with all of us snowed in together, driving each other batty.”
“We can come back at night, when everyone’s asleep.”
Fiona couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“You are joking, aren’t you?”
But she could tell from the look on his face that he meant it. He was deadly serious.
“You’re mad,” she whispered. “Think of the risk!”
He shrugged and avoided her eye. “It’s worth it.” He bent his head and continued to search, slipping book after book from the shelf. One by one he looked at them, blowing the dust off their covers, then slid them back into place. It was clear these books hadn’t been touched in years.
“Granny Hughes doesn’t like dusting in here on her ownwhen she knows the rest of the house is empty, so the library doesn’t always get cleaned,” Fiona pointed out. “She has a thing about the library, she won’t go near it unless she has to.”
“Everyone seems to have a thing about the library.”
They searched on in silence. The hours passed and it didn’t look as if they would ever find the rest of Catherine Morton’s journal amongst the neglected books of her father’s old library. They would never find out what happened to her and Patrick.
“Her diary is nearly three hundred years old, after all,” Fiona said. “Why would it be sitting in the library, waiting for us to find it? It’s much more likely to have been destroyed or lost.”
“Then why did someone tear out the opening pages and keep them?”
“Who knows?”
As they were preparing to give up, Samuel leant against the bookcase and his gaze travelled upwards. His eye came to rest on a dark carved wooden box on top of a glass-fronted bookcase. It rang a bell for some reason,
They stepped inside, peering nervously into the shadows.
Everything was exactly as they had seen it before, dust and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, Fiona’s father’s things laid out carefully on the green leather-topped desk, untouched, just as if he was about to reappear and take up his place again, doing whatever it was he was doing the day he died. It seemed to Samuel there was a heavy atmosphere in this room, some kind of tension or energy.
“Now what?” Fiona whispered.
He caught her eye. “We start looking, that’s what!”
Their voices sounded loud in the silence, and they glanced nervously over their shoulders.
Fiona pulled a crimson velvet footstool towards her, and sat down. Samuel was too intrigued to sit. He touched the spine of an old book with faded gold lettering embossed on its leather cover. “She said in the diary that it was a leather-bound volume,” he murmured. “We need to check every book on these shelves until we’re sure it isn’t here.”
They decided to take a wall each, and work through the books methodically.
“I don’t trust Charles,” Fiona whispered after a while, listening out for any sound in the corridor beyond. “He knows we’re up to something.”
“What if he comes back unexpectedly?” she added.
“We’ll worry about that if it happens,” Samuel said. To begin with they were quite hopeful. There were so many old volumes here, and every one that they slid from its place on the dusty shelves seemed like a distinct possibility. However, each time they inspected a book, they replaced it, disappointed. Catherine’s journal was proving very elusive.
“This is going to take hours,” Fiona sighed, gazing up at the ranks of books towering above her.
Samuel knew that too, but was trying not to despair. He didn’t want to give in so easily. What had seemed such a good idea when they started out was turning into a mammoth task. He’d been so certain they’d find something. It was too painful to give up now.
“We’ll just have to come back when we can, and keep looking,” he murmured.
“How can we do that? The house is never empty like this. Not with all of us snowed in together, driving each other batty.”
“We can come back at night, when everyone’s asleep.”
Fiona couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“You are joking, aren’t you?”
But she could tell from the look on his face that he meant it. He was deadly serious.
“You’re mad,” she whispered. “Think of the risk!”
He shrugged and avoided her eye. “It’s worth it.” He bent his head and continued to search, slipping book after book from the shelf. One by one he looked at them, blowing the dust off their covers, then slid them back into place. It was clear these books hadn’t been touched in years.
“Granny Hughes doesn’t like dusting in here on her ownwhen she knows the rest of the house is empty, so the library doesn’t always get cleaned,” Fiona pointed out. “She has a thing about the library, she won’t go near it unless she has to.”
“Everyone seems to have a thing about the library.”
They searched on in silence. The hours passed and it didn’t look as if they would ever find the rest of Catherine Morton’s journal amongst the neglected books of her father’s old library. They would never find out what happened to her and Patrick.
“Her diary is nearly three hundred years old, after all,” Fiona said. “Why would it be sitting in the library, waiting for us to find it? It’s much more likely to have been destroyed or lost.”
“Then why did someone tear out the opening pages and keep them?”
“Who knows?”
As they were preparing to give up, Samuel leant against the bookcase and his gaze travelled upwards. His eye came to rest on a dark carved wooden box on top of a glass-fronted bookcase. It rang a bell for some reason,
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