The house grew up before me as I passed under three gateways. Tall red chimneys pierced the grey clouds. The rain was battering the landscape as it had, unceasing for 48 hours now. I pulled my black hood further over my head, glad that the voluminous folds protected my face from the weather as well as recognition.

I slipped into the chilly oak room, bright with carving and marquetry; the cock-fighting chair looking as though someone had stabbed a fork into its green leather back. In one corner I quietly pushed aside a section of panelling and crept behind. The beautiful carved wooden staircase with its busts of gracious 18th century ladies was not for me, not even when candles flickered and noises of rats and bats and birds disturbed and frightened the children of the house.

The steps were uneven, the secret hiding place no longer complete. I closed the trapdoor, feeling the terror of being trapped, hiding fearful, in a hole, with the Pursuivants clattering about above. There was a hair across my face, no, a cobweb threaded across my lips like the kiss of a spectral presence. Brick dust clung thickly to my black skirts. Did Father Garnet love or hate this Gemini life, he who spent his time travelling, hiding, secretly celebrating his special relationship with God? Only the most secret of ascents did I make, climbing through the interstices of the inner house, the living recreation of its secret life. I could feel between my fingers the wax of the sacred candles, the parchment pages of the ancient holy book, the rough wood of the chalice.

Daylight filtered through the gaps in the battered stonework, bright through a tiny window even on this miserable day. I stumbled, catching my elbow on the rough inner wall, nearly slipping on the narrow triangular steps, putting out a steadying hand to grasp a filthy wooden tread, feeling the blood trickle down my arm to mingle with black dust.

How many others had made this ascent before me - since Master Owen had crafted the hole itself? How many of them had survived more than a handful of years after their secret smuggling from seminarian study in France? How many had met a terrible death at the hands of fanatical Master Topcliffe, hanging in a dungeon from racking hooks, tormented and beleaguered - but never, ever denying their God and faith.

The crimson bedhangings quivered in the cold still air as I took out my stole, kissed its sacred folds and placed it around my neck. Carefully I lifted out of its velvet-lined case the crystal phial of holy water.

Little by little I sprinkled the holy water on all the contents of that haunted room. The great oak wardrobe was thought to move, the desk and chair that groaned in the night - the book of ghost stories on the bedside table - the door that creaked though no living being touched it, the great bed itself, dark, carved wood, hung with patched brocade and strange sewn flora, that never a cobweb nor a speck of dust came near. The bed I gave an extra sprinkling - more for luck than ceremonial need. I murmured words of blessing and benediction in the old tongue. Deo Gratias Pax Vobiscum.

No-one had authorised my liturgy - no recusants here now - but I had planned this secret return since my last visit, have perceived the need. I hoped that this action would dispel the ghosts and terrible aura of superstition that hung over this room. Merely sacred it was, but bound up with a terrible history.

Tomorrow the specialist cleaners and wood-treatment firm would come in, to deal with dry rot, damp and smells, and then there would be an end forever to the terrible reputation of this room.

I kissed my stole again as I laid it reverently in its case, and by its side the phial, empty now. I turned to leave the red room - stopped - my hand on the door, and clearly heard a quavering voice ring out from the cupboard from whence descended the secret stair.

"I thank thee for this restoration of my little chapel to the true faith once again."

"You're welcome, Father Garnet!" I whispered, and went back to my party.

© Copyright Helen Whitehead 1997