pressed a light switch on the landing wall, and a dim glow filled the square above their heads.
'Now, will you be all right?' asked Violet. 'There is a torch up there, I believe, though the battery may have gone. And I hope you don't mind mice. We hear them scampering about at night, dear little things. We none of us has the heart to trap them.'
She scurried away and Harold mounted the steps gingerly. He was relieved to find that the entire loft floor was boarded, and stood for a few moments trying to get accustomed to the dim light.
The sight that met his eyes was a revelation. The place was crammed with Victorian and Edwardian relics which would have delighted an antique dealer's heart.
There were two enormous hip baths, three wooden towel rails, and a fireguard which had probably been in use some seventy or eighty years earlier in the girls' nursery. There were several dismantled iron bedsteads stacked against one wall, the legacy probably of servants long-dead, and a pile of circular hat boxes towering over a wicker chair with a dilapidated cushion showing signs of mouse occupancy.
Tennis racquets of antique design, skating boots, skis and a wooden sledge were propped in one corner beside a box of toys. In it Harold saw a diabolo set, a Russian egg, several jigsaw puzzles, a clockwork train, and a dolls' teaset. Hard by stood a dusty dolls' house, a replica of the one in which he now stood, down to the three front doorsteps and the brass knocker.
The Misses Lovelock must have been very fortunate little girls, thought Harold, stepping past these relics to half a dozen trunks which occupied the main part of the floor space.
To his relief, he saw that each bore a label written in a fair copperplate style, but faded and grimy with years. The largest bore the inscription ' APPARATUS—PHOTOGRAPHY AND ASTRONOMY'. The next in size said 'MAMA'S, AND OTHER FAMILY PICTURES'.
Harold turned his attention to the smallest case of the collection, a brown tin object bearing a label which seemed hopeful: 'PERSONAL PAPERS'.
The little trunk was unlocked, but the lid was difficult to lift.
When at last he had forced it open, Harold saw neatly packed bundles of letters, notebooks and some cardboard-covered pamphlets. He tackled these first, squatting on the dusty floor, peering closely in the dim light from the naked electric bulb above him. The torch, as Violet had indicated, was useless, and Harold intended to take it down with him when he descended.
The bundle of leaflets was tied with fine string, and they appeared to be written either by the Lovelocks' father himself or by some of his friends.
Harold turned them in his now filthy hands. They dealt with such subjects as 'Spirit Manifestations', 'Electrical Phenomena', 'Scientific Experiments' and 'Astronomical Data'. He was almost at the end of the collection when he came across one with the title 'Local Benefactors' and his heart leapt. Could this be the series which first appeared in the local parish magazine?
He stood up to get nearer to the light, and studied the index. Yes, here was something! 'The Reverend Octavius Fennel 1842–1912.'
The print was small and Harold had difficulty in reading it. He put it aside with the torch, and delved again into the papers.
After an hour's search, he decided that this was really all that was relevant to his present endeavours, and he closed the lid, looked once more upon the dusty quietness of long ago, and retraced his steps.
'I am so very grateful,' he told Violet, as he washed the grime of ages from his hands at the kitchen sink. 'I will let you have this back as soon as I have copied out the important pieces, and I will also put a new battery in the torch, as a very small thank-you.'
He was in buoyant mood as he climbed the hill to Thrush Green. To be sure, the case he carried had only one small leaflet, and an ancient torch to keep it company, but Harold foresaw many happy hours ahead with this treasure from the Lovelocks'
'Now, will you be all right?' asked Violet. 'There is a torch up there, I believe, though the battery may have gone. And I hope you don't mind mice. We hear them scampering about at night, dear little things. We none of us has the heart to trap them.'
She scurried away and Harold mounted the steps gingerly. He was relieved to find that the entire loft floor was boarded, and stood for a few moments trying to get accustomed to the dim light.
The sight that met his eyes was a revelation. The place was crammed with Victorian and Edwardian relics which would have delighted an antique dealer's heart.
There were two enormous hip baths, three wooden towel rails, and a fireguard which had probably been in use some seventy or eighty years earlier in the girls' nursery. There were several dismantled iron bedsteads stacked against one wall, the legacy probably of servants long-dead, and a pile of circular hat boxes towering over a wicker chair with a dilapidated cushion showing signs of mouse occupancy.
Tennis racquets of antique design, skating boots, skis and a wooden sledge were propped in one corner beside a box of toys. In it Harold saw a diabolo set, a Russian egg, several jigsaw puzzles, a clockwork train, and a dolls' teaset. Hard by stood a dusty dolls' house, a replica of the one in which he now stood, down to the three front doorsteps and the brass knocker.
The Misses Lovelock must have been very fortunate little girls, thought Harold, stepping past these relics to half a dozen trunks which occupied the main part of the floor space.
To his relief, he saw that each bore a label written in a fair copperplate style, but faded and grimy with years. The largest bore the inscription ' APPARATUS—PHOTOGRAPHY AND ASTRONOMY'. The next in size said 'MAMA'S, AND OTHER FAMILY PICTURES'.
Harold turned his attention to the smallest case of the collection, a brown tin object bearing a label which seemed hopeful: 'PERSONAL PAPERS'.
The little trunk was unlocked, but the lid was difficult to lift.
When at last he had forced it open, Harold saw neatly packed bundles of letters, notebooks and some cardboard-covered pamphlets. He tackled these first, squatting on the dusty floor, peering closely in the dim light from the naked electric bulb above him. The torch, as Violet had indicated, was useless, and Harold intended to take it down with him when he descended.
The bundle of leaflets was tied with fine string, and they appeared to be written either by the Lovelocks' father himself or by some of his friends.
Harold turned them in his now filthy hands. They dealt with such subjects as 'Spirit Manifestations', 'Electrical Phenomena', 'Scientific Experiments' and 'Astronomical Data'. He was almost at the end of the collection when he came across one with the title 'Local Benefactors' and his heart leapt. Could this be the series which first appeared in the local parish magazine?
He stood up to get nearer to the light, and studied the index. Yes, here was something! 'The Reverend Octavius Fennel 1842–1912.'
The print was small and Harold had difficulty in reading it. He put it aside with the torch, and delved again into the papers.
After an hour's search, he decided that this was really all that was relevant to his present endeavours, and he closed the lid, looked once more upon the dusty quietness of long ago, and retraced his steps.
'I am so very grateful,' he told Violet, as he washed the grime of ages from his hands at the kitchen sink. 'I will let you have this back as soon as I have copied out the important pieces, and I will also put a new battery in the torch, as a very small thank-you.'
He was in buoyant mood as he climbed the hill to Thrush Green. To be sure, the case he carried had only one small leaflet, and an ancient torch to keep it company, but Harold foresaw many happy hours ahead with this treasure from the Lovelocks'
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