The Shell House Read Online Free PDF Page B

suspended in mid-wall; he could see that the upper rooms must have been enormous. Above him had probably been a drawing room or dining room, giving, at that height, the best possible views over the countryside and forest. To his left, the floor gaped, revealing more rooms below—cellars or kitchens, he thought. Since humans had moved out, vegetation had moved in. Clumps of nettles clung between bricks; brambles, willowherb, and even the sapling trees he had noticed before had found rootholds. A swallow swooped low over his head as he stood there.
    He began to make his way through to the rear. He was thinking of what Faith had said, about the place being a prime site for development as a country club, hotel or conference centre. He disliked the idea, but now wondered why. This house was a relic of an age when the rich were very rich and the poor were nothing. Dozens of poorly-paid labourers must have sweated and toiled to build the place; teams of servants would have slogged long hours so that the owners could live in luxury. Wouldn’t it be better turned into a facility for everyone to enjoy? The land itself must be worth a packet, at a time when farmers could make a fortune by selling off odd corners of fields for house-building. But country clubs and hotels were only for the well-heeled; there would be no change there. His instinct was that the mansion should be left as it was. To pull it down would be to destroy the past with it, to state that the twenty-first century had no room left for this great, sprawling reminder of an older way of life . . .
    The hairs rose on the back of his neck as he became aware of a strange keening sound. At first he thought it was some creature, a fox or a cat, trapped in the ruins. He stood and listened, trying to locate the direction. Then the voice took on a distinctly human tone, and was joined by another, rising in a banshee wail. Kids, mucking about! Greg’s anxiety turned to annoyance. They were taunting him, creeping up close, hooting, staying out of sight. He heard a jeering laugh and another drawn-out, wavering cry. Then a Tarzan yell from somewhere above his head made him jump. He looked up and saw, balanced on the edge of a staircase, a skinny boy—wavering, losing balance, arms flailing. Greg caught his breath. The boy laughed and dodged back out of sight—only pretending. Kookaburra laughter rippled to his left. There must be three or four of them.
    Irritated, Greg continued to pick his way through to the back of the house. The voices followed him, like sparrows mobbing a magpie. The glimpse he’d had was of a boy, thirteen or so, in jeans and a yellow T-SHIRT. Moronic, climbing around in an unstable building! But Greg was unlikely to catch them—they knew their way around. It must be their illicit playground.
    Emerging at the foot of the steps leading down from the first floor to the garden, Greg looked to his left. Past the brick wing of the building were the remains of another low structure reaching along the edge of the garden; could have been a covered walkway or pergola. He stepped out into the garden and stood looking and listening. Silence. Then:
    ‘Tosspot!’
    ‘Prat!’
    There were three of them halfway along the walkway, running, leaping over blocks of stone, knowing he was too far off to catch them. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself by trying. They were making for the main driveway. A moment later he saw them riding away on bikes, which they must have hidden in a ditch or behind bushes, or he’d have noticed them. Well out of his reach, they rode slowly, swerving across the path, sliding into turns. One of them gave a mocking hoot and raised two fingers.
    He walked slowly along the way they had left. The low structure, marked by remnants of pillars at varying heights, led to a large octagonal area of foundations. A conservatory, he supposed. At the farthest end, his eye was caught by something bright, where a section of wall still stood. DEAN WOZ