The Doll Story MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett

was becoming increasingly macabre. He pointed to a portion of wall close to the old bricked-up fireplace. “I must say, when I first came up here, a few days ago, I half-expected to find a coffin or two up here.”

      “I’d rather you didn’t talk like that,” complained Hargreaves. “This place gives me the creeps enough as it is. He must have been a bit of a weird one to have lived here all alone. And that raises another thing—why would an old man, whom you’ve already told us had no family, have child’s toys and things up here?”

      “Beats me.” Briggs consulted his clipboard. “According to all the details, Mr. von Shaffer was to all extents and purposes a bit of a hoarder. It could be that he collected some of these things. Though why he would want to stick them all up here in this room, away from everything else, is a bit of a mystery. A bit like the man himself. From what little I’ve pieced together, it would appear that he came over from Germany or Austria sometime during the reign of Victoria, although I’ve been unable to ascertain any true records pertaining to him. Consequently, I’ve been unable to track down any surviving relatives who may be entitled to a share of some of his possessions. Similarly, like so many foreigners, he left no will, no one to whom he bequeathed any of this.” He gave an encompassing wave of his hand. “Anyhow, it looks as though you’re nearly done up here. We’ll get that lot in the corner cleared out, and I’ll put it all down in the inventory and then we’ll get it packed up and—” He shivered uncontrollably as the almost undetectable sound of a child crying emanated from the far corner before being cut abruptly short. Eyes wide, he stood stock still.

      “Did you hear that?” hissed Hargreaves, staring wildly.

      “Hear what?” Following the other’s gaze, Jones glanced around. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No headless wraiths materializing out of the floorboards, or hideous, fanged corpse-faces at the window.

      “It was—only the wind,” said Briggs, uncertainly. His face had gone several tones paler. Relax, he told himself, relax. The idea that anything could be wrong was utterly ludicrous, totally ridiculous. He felt a little tremor of fear pass through him. It was almost as if there was something—some presence—in the room with them. And that whatever it was, it had neither shape nor substance. Rather, it was a feeling, an impression of looming malevolence that touched his mind with a finger of ice. Thoughts clashed inside his head, and he felt the sudden deathly silence pull at him. He tried to steady himself. “Come on, let’s hurry this up. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’ll be away from here.”

      “Right you are, boss.” Oblivious to the nervous actions of his companions, Jones started towards the untidy heap of child’s toys and furniture that had been tucked away in the shadowy corner of the attic room. The wooden boards of the floor creaked under his heavy feet and a sprinkling of dust fell from the raftered ceiling.

      Reluctantly, Hargreaves walked over to assist. They soon got their usual working rhythm going, with Jones clearing the bric-a-brac and handing it to the other, who would then take it over to Briggs. It was then the foreman’s duty to record a reasonable description and assessment of the item before it was finally packed up. And, whereas Jones worked with a cold efficiency, the other two men were edgy, occasionally stopping to look and listen, straining their senses for the undetectable.

      There were no repeats of the eerie sound that had scared them earlier, and, after half an hour, they had managed to clear away and log everything, with only the iron framework of the child’s bed remaining. In a somewhat cavalier attitude, Jones reached down and hauled it to one side, the metal legs scraping across the floor. It was a cumbersome piece of furniture, and it took both himself and Hargreaves to manhandle it across the room. In the process of doing so, one of the struts of the framework snagged on Hargreaves’s chest, ripping open the front of his overalls and dislodging the pencil he kept in his breast pocket.

      With a grunt, he lowered the bed to the floor, walked around Jones and looked down to see where his pencil had gone. It could not be seen, and his first guess was that it had rolled underneath one of the packing crates.

      “Are you all right, Mike? That looks like quite a nasty scratch you got there.” Jones nodded to where the child’s bed had snagged the other.

      “Eh?” With some level of surprise, Hargreaves looked at the ragged tear on his chest and saw that a small puddle of blood was spreading on his white undershirt. He put his fingers to the dampness. “It’s just a scratch. I think I’ll live.” He looked down again, eyes searching. “Can’t seem to see my pencil. Pass me your torch, will you, and I’ll see if it’s rolled under one of the crates.”

      He went down on bended knees and pointed the torch beam to the floor. He traced the line of the narrow beam back and forth, seeing where their footprints had scuffed over the dust-covered floorboards. He went down to almost eye level with the floor and looked under several of the crates. It was as he was about to give up searching, that he saw a small anomaly in the woodwork, an almost imperceptible raised board that clearly signified the presence of a small, cunningly concealed trapdoor. “Stan! Come and have a look at this.”

      “What is it?” asked Jones, crouching down to get a better look.

      “Looks like some kind of compartment. Get me a screwdriver and I’ll try and prize the lid up.”

      Briggs had now stepped over, intrigued as to what this find might reveal. There had been talk that von Shaffer had been a very wealthy man, and it stood to reason that he could have secreted his personal fortune away somewhere in a place such as this. And Briggs was the kind of man who was not adverse to making a little extra profit if and when the opportunity arose. It would be easy enough to fob his two underlings off with a few pounds, telling them that he was going to turn the remainder over to the state, whereas in reality he would see to it that he was the sole beneficiary. His greedy mind had temporarily forgotten about his unease.

      With the use of a screwdriver, Hargreaves succeeded in levering up the square wooden lid. Brushing away a fairly large spider which had crawled out from underneath, he directed the torch beam into the shallow cavity beyond. The light revealed a small, rectangular, leather casket of some description. It was sealed by brass clasps and a peculiar-looking lock.

      “Well, get it out,” ordered Briggs impatiently, signalling with his hands. “Let’s have a look at it.”

      Gingerly, Hargreaves reached in and lifted it free from the cavity in which it had been deposited. It was not particularly heavy, but as he raised it something inside seemed to shift, almost causing him to drop it in alarm. Hurriedly, he placed it on top of one of the crates.

      Briggs cast his appraising eye over the container. It was certainly old. Far older than any of the other things they had already found in the attic. He reckoned it to be older than anything he had ever come across before. The leather was cracked and discolored in places, the bindings showing signs of rust amongst their intricate designs. There was a strange smell coming from it as well. He ran the tips of the fingers of his right hand across it, wincing inexplicably at the age-old feel.

      “Don’t ask me why, but I’ve a bad feeling about this box,” Hargreaves said, taking a step or two back from it. “To my mind it’s clear that whoever hid it up here do so for a reason. I think this is something that was meant to remain hidden.”

      “Absolute nonsense,” sneered Jones derisively. “It could be filled with doubloons or precious jewellery. It’s undoubtedly the safe-box the old man stored his money in. Give me the screwdriver and I’ll see if I can get the blasted thing open.” With a sudden movement, he snatched the screwdriver out of Hargreaves’ hand and thrust it into the narrow dividing line between the box and its lid.

      “Just be careful how you handle that thing,” admonished Briggs. “The box alone looks like it could be worth several hundred pounds. I’ve never seen anything quite as intricate or as old as that. It doesn’t look British. Probably eastern European.”

      Wiggling the screwdriver back and forth, Jones slowly began to force the lid up. With a protesting screech of tortured metal the brass clasps broke free. The lock was proving harder to jimmy open and sweat was beginning to pop out