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‘This is the showing room, dear,’ she says, ushering me through an old stable door that leads off the courtyard. ‘It’s where we display pieces for viewings.’
I breach the threshold and smile at the stark space that’s free from any furniture or wall hangings. All that’s contained within the room is an easel to hold paintings and a tall glass cabinet, where I’m guessing pots, vases, or other similar artefacts would be placed within. It’s the most naked space I’ve seen so far in The Haven. It’s easy to know why – it’s so when pieces are showcased, that’s all there is to focus on in the room.
‘And now I’ll show you the library.’ Mrs Potts is off across the cobbles, heading to the doorway that leads into the Grand Hall. I follow eagerly, and when we enter the hall that’s cluttered with treasures from every era you could imagine, I’m instantly warmed through again – the smell, the sight, the feeling that can only be achieved in a room full of Old Masters and valuable pieces.
Something comes to me as we’re weaving through the priceless art and antiques. ‘Mrs Potts, there must be millions of pounds’ worth of treasure in here,’ I say, keeping up with her shuffling body. ‘Isn’t security an issue?’ Yes, I’ve seen the security keypads, but the doors and walls protecting this space are hardly Fort Knox.
Mrs Potts chuckles under her breath, like I’ve told a joke. It makes me feel silly, though I don’t know why. It’s a perfectly sensible question. ‘Trust me, dear. No one is getting into The Haven, let alone the Grand Hall.’
I frown, thinking the Hunt Corporation might be being a little blasé about security, but I don’t press, because the huge glass wall that keeps watch over the Grand Hall grips my attention. I look up to complete darkness, my imagination running wild. Now I know it was him lurking in the shadows yesterday, watching me. The prickles that crept across my skin as I stared up at the glass match the same kind of tingling that I’ve experienced each and every time I’ve encountered Becker Hunt. And, on cue, a shudder glides down my spine. Is he there now, watching me?
My mind is off on a tangent as I vaguely note Mrs Potts swiping her card. I shake my mind clear as I follow her, and we’re swiftly heading down the corridor, passing the collection of beautiful framed pictures – watercolours, pencil drawings, oils – one of which I recognise instantly. ‘John Constable,’ I observe, gazing at it as we pass. By the slight tilt of her head, I can tell she’s impressed.
We approach that alluring staircase, and I force my eyes forward, refusing to give in to the overwhelming temptation to peek up to the dark space. Thankfully, Mrs Potts drops a gear in pace until she’s beside me, distracting me, like she can sense my inner battle. She smiles. ‘We keep all the client files in the library. They’ve become jumbled up over the years.’
I return her smile, grateful for her intervention. ‘Are there many?’
She laughs. ‘Just a few. Here we are.’ She indicates for me to open it, so I swipe my card as I gaze up at the wooden doors that stretch to the ceiling.
‘Done,’ I say, taking the handle. The doors are solid and heavy, so I have to physically put all my weight against them to push them open.
‘The library,’ Mrs Potts declares.
‘Oh my goodness,’ I breathe as I step over the threshold, in awe as my eyes scan the room. I wander into the centre and spend a few moments taking it all in, slowly pivoting. There are no windows, leaving every wall adorned in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all built in a rich, dark wood. The room must be forty-feet high, similar to the Grand Hall, and there’s a gold balcony circling halfway up with ladders leading to various sections. There’s not an empty space, every shelf is loaded with books, binders, files. And the smell. I breathe in hundreds of years’ worth of history from the pages surrounding me as I look up, seeing an intricately carved cornice framing the ceiling, and within it, a mosaic of millions of pieces of broken tiles, forming a stunning picture. ‘Heaven and hell,’ I whisper to myself, rapt by the illustration adorning the ceiling.
‘Good and bad,’ Mrs Potts replies, standing patiently by, allowing me to absorb the magnificence of the room. I could be a while. I’m spellbound.
The extravagance isn’t the only thing that blows my mind. I bet the wealth of information found on these shelves couldn’t be read in a lifetime. Possibly not even ten lifetimes.
‘More or less every morsel of history the Hunt Corporation has amassed in over two hundred years of trading, dear,’ she says fondly. ‘Every client we’ve had, deal we’ve made, sale we’ve agreed to, item we’ve sold, as well as hundreds of antique reference books to boot.’ She smiles at my flabbergasted face. ‘Not to mention travel guides, map books, and encyclopaedias.’
