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training base - hence my uncle's involvement and the set of lock
picks and the sketch plan he gave me. The state apartments had been
sealed but Uncle told me that trainees brought out souvenirs in
a rite of passage. The War Office responded by bricking up doorways
and installing locked bulkheads - which Uncle and his friends mapped.
In the ten years since the war, two owners had tried to restore
Ladybower. The first made the west wing habitable and opened Repton's
gardens to the public but the second was adamant that no one else
would see Ladybower's splendours until he received a grant for the
Hall's restoration. I couldn't wait that long.
On the terrace I stared up at my route. A less agile man wouldn't
have risked it; I, however, fit from my National Service stint and
fresh from a rock-climbing weekend was undeterred. Even a break
in the lead drainpipe and a shower of rotten mortar didn't stop
me. I'd chosen the day after seeing a photo of the owner and his
family in the paper. They were boarding the Queen Mary. No doubt
there was a housekeeper but at one-ish she'd be at lunch and I'd
planned my route to avoid the restored wing. I reached the dormer
window of a servant's room and looked down at the garden forty feet
below the balustrade. On a sunlit path a black cat made its way
towards the back of the house - a good omen, I smiled and then paused.
Sunlit?
Once again, I experienced that hollow feeling. No one has explained
the phenomenon of déjà vu.
I had been this way before.
When I took out my penknife to force the window catch, the torch
fell from my pocket. It bounced between the balusters and out of
sight.
"You bloody fool," I groaned.
How would I find my way around the labyrinth Uncle had drawn let
alone examine a concealed fresco? National Service blind-obedience
training took over: I had a mission and must not give up. "Grit
the teeth," I told myself.
The first obstacle was a bulkhead door but it was surprisingly easy
to use the lock picks on it. A maze of sky-lighted passages led
to another door. A servants' stairway took me down to the second
floor - and a strange unnatural darkness. It was while I was feeling
my way along a blank wall that I heard voices through it.
Although the route had taken me towards the back of the house, I
didn't think I was so far west. The voices were female; one was
of a panic-stricken child.
"It's locked. Oh Dorothy, we've been locked in," she wailed.
She coughed. I moved forward, collided with a door - and smelt wood
smoke.
Fire! Forget Michaelangelo, I must save those girls. I recalled
what the guide book said: there had been a big fire during the Victorian
restoration and another in the kitchens in 1921. The next was due.
"Olive, try the other door," the older girl shouted. "Get
down on the floor below the smoke."
There was more coughing.
"I can't see," Olive shrieked.
"Here, feel for my hand. Crawl on your tummy."
"I'm coming," I yelled.
Having picked its lock, I found that the door was at the head of
a spiral staircase. I hurtled down to the first floor on which were
the state apartments. I expected to feel ornate door cases on both
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