investigate every inch of the house.
Standing inches away from the corridor, with my hand still grasping the doorknob, it suddenly occurs to me that Iâve never checked out the Bloomsâ bedroomâitâs right at the end of this corridor, between the bathroom and the basement.
I turn around and walk back down the hall until Iâm standing in front of the door.
It feels strange, as though Iâm about to cross an invisible line.
I twist the handle and push, and the interior of their room is revealed: a luminous, airy space, beautifully decorated in the same style as the one where Iâm sleeping, but much, much brighter. To the left, a large French window looks out over the side of the garden I havenât yet had a chance to visit, while the centre of the room is dominated by an imposing four-poster bed with cream-coloured curtains. Over on the right, a very old wooden wardrobe completes the furnishings.
I walk over to the large French doors that open to the garden and study the space outside. A small fountain stands in the middle of a gravelled space which seems to be cut off from the garden proper. All around it, a neatly trimmed square-cut hedge delineates the margin of what would appear to be Amabel and Marvinâs special little corner. Two wonderfully intricate white iron chairs are placed next to the water fountain, separated slightly by a small table between them.
Tempted to go outside, I grasp the key and am on the verge of turning it in the lock when all of a sudden I hear that noise again.
I spin round in alarm to check if thereâs anybody there.
Nothing.
I peer about nervously for a couple of seconds, then decide that I should probably turn my attention to the ceiling. Set in the white coffered panelling is a small square hatch with a cord hanging from one corner. I position myself directly underneath it and jump up, trying to reach the cord, but a few failed attempts later, I give up in frustration.
As I look up at it, I suddenly remember the stepladder that I noticed in the basement the other day, and so, with pulse racing, I find myself once again walking down those dark, rickety stairs.
When I reach the bottom, I see what Iâm looking for, still propped up against the far wall. Cheered by the thought that I wonât have to spend too long down there, I stride across the stone flags and take hold of the ladderâonly to find, a few seconds later, that hauling it back up the stairs is unexpectedly difficult.
After a few less-than-successful attempts, inspiration strikes, and I lay the ladder flat upon the treads of the steps and slide it upwards until it bumps into the bathroom door, at which point I clamber past it and haul it up from the top, leaning it against the corridor wall.
Glowing with pride at the success of my efforts, I carry it into the bedroom and position it right under the entrance to the attic.
Compared to the struggle of getting it here, actually climbing the ladder turns out to be a piece of cake: I can feel the reassuring support of its steps beneath my feet until Iâm high enough to grab the cord and pull down on it with all of my might, and the panel swings down, revealing a dark opening.
The stepladder wobbles but doesnât tip over, allowing me to continue my ascent and make my way into the unknown space above.
Inside, itâs cramped and gloomyâwhat feeble illumination there is comes from the little bullâs-eye window of coloured glass in the pediment, but itâs nothing like enough to be able to see clearly.
However, after Iâve been up there a few minutes, my eyes finally start getting accustomed to the low light, and what at first had seemed to be nothing more than an awful lot of blurred shapes start to resolve into something a bit clearer.
I look around me, taking in the various strange symbols that are dotted all over the place, covering practically every inch of the walls. There are piles of old books
Standing inches away from the corridor, with my hand still grasping the doorknob, it suddenly occurs to me that Iâve never checked out the Bloomsâ bedroomâitâs right at the end of this corridor, between the bathroom and the basement.
I turn around and walk back down the hall until Iâm standing in front of the door.
It feels strange, as though Iâm about to cross an invisible line.
I twist the handle and push, and the interior of their room is revealed: a luminous, airy space, beautifully decorated in the same style as the one where Iâm sleeping, but much, much brighter. To the left, a large French window looks out over the side of the garden I havenât yet had a chance to visit, while the centre of the room is dominated by an imposing four-poster bed with cream-coloured curtains. Over on the right, a very old wooden wardrobe completes the furnishings.
I walk over to the large French doors that open to the garden and study the space outside. A small fountain stands in the middle of a gravelled space which seems to be cut off from the garden proper. All around it, a neatly trimmed square-cut hedge delineates the margin of what would appear to be Amabel and Marvinâs special little corner. Two wonderfully intricate white iron chairs are placed next to the water fountain, separated slightly by a small table between them.
Tempted to go outside, I grasp the key and am on the verge of turning it in the lock when all of a sudden I hear that noise again.
I spin round in alarm to check if thereâs anybody there.
Nothing.
I peer about nervously for a couple of seconds, then decide that I should probably turn my attention to the ceiling. Set in the white coffered panelling is a small square hatch with a cord hanging from one corner. I position myself directly underneath it and jump up, trying to reach the cord, but a few failed attempts later, I give up in frustration.
As I look up at it, I suddenly remember the stepladder that I noticed in the basement the other day, and so, with pulse racing, I find myself once again walking down those dark, rickety stairs.
When I reach the bottom, I see what Iâm looking for, still propped up against the far wall. Cheered by the thought that I wonât have to spend too long down there, I stride across the stone flags and take hold of the ladderâonly to find, a few seconds later, that hauling it back up the stairs is unexpectedly difficult.
After a few less-than-successful attempts, inspiration strikes, and I lay the ladder flat upon the treads of the steps and slide it upwards until it bumps into the bathroom door, at which point I clamber past it and haul it up from the top, leaning it against the corridor wall.
Glowing with pride at the success of my efforts, I carry it into the bedroom and position it right under the entrance to the attic.
Compared to the struggle of getting it here, actually climbing the ladder turns out to be a piece of cake: I can feel the reassuring support of its steps beneath my feet until Iâm high enough to grab the cord and pull down on it with all of my might, and the panel swings down, revealing a dark opening.
The stepladder wobbles but doesnât tip over, allowing me to continue my ascent and make my way into the unknown space above.
Inside, itâs cramped and gloomyâwhat feeble illumination there is comes from the little bullâs-eye window of coloured glass in the pediment, but itâs nothing like enough to be able to see clearly.
However, after Iâve been up there a few minutes, my eyes finally start getting accustomed to the low light, and what at first had seemed to be nothing more than an awful lot of blurred shapes start to resolve into something a bit clearer.
I look around me, taking in the various strange symbols that are dotted all over the place, covering practically every inch of the walls. There are piles of old books