Crimson Shore

There are only three of them left: a maiden aunt; Sir Bartleby Hurwell, Lady Hurwell’s great-grandson, a sadly attenuated specimen; and his unmarried spinster daughter. They spent hours telling old family stories, showing me photo albums, and speaking of Lady Hurwell in reverent tones. Despite their admiration for the woman, they, alas, had little useful information: most of what they told me I had already learned in the course of my research. They served me a lunch of tired cucumber sandwiches and weak tea. I felt myself growing disheartened. I had held off on contacting Lady Hurwell’s descendants until I was far into my research, feeling certain that a show of familiarity with their ancestor would help break the ice. However, now that the ice was broken, it seemed my efforts would yield but slender results.

Nevertheless, it was during lunch that I inquired as to the state of Lady Hurwell’s papers. It turned out that the three remaining Hurwells knew nothing about any papers, but informed me that, if any existed, they would be in the attic. Naturally, I requested access. After a brief confabulation, they agreed. And so, lunch concluded, Sir B. led me along echoing galleries and up rickety back staircases to the attic, tucked up under the eaves of the mansion. There was no electric light but, luckily, I’d had the foresight to bring along a flashlight with spare batteries.

The attic went on and on. It contained a near-riot of effluvium: ancient steamer trunks; stacks of empty wooden shipping crates; tailor’s dummies, bleeding stuffing; endless piles of old copies of the Times and issues of Punch dating back decades, carefully tied with twine. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and additional dust rose in noxious plumes with every footstep. At first, Sir B. shadowed me — perhaps he feared I might fill my pockets with some of the ancient jetsam — but in short order the dust, and the squeaking of rats, got the better of him and he excused himself.