Southend U3A

September 2023

Senara’s Box - Lynn Gale

The blue mist rose slowly from the box. It swirled around in a hypnotic display as it danced towards him. Unable to move, he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came from his throat as the ice-cold tendrils engulfed him.

. . .

Gordon Merryfield was tall, good-looking, charming and an accomplished burglar. He scanned the obituaries daily and gate-crashed the funerals of the rich and famous, telling anyone who questioned his presence that he was the son of an old friend unable to come. Mingling with the mourners, he took note of anything of value. A notice in the ‘Tolhampton Times’ caught his eye one morning. The funeral of Sir John Delacorte, renowned explorer and collector, was being held this coming Friday, followed by a reception at Delacorte Hall.

Arriving at the impressive family house, Gordon, dressed in his newly pressed grey suit and matching tie, smiled in anticipation. The old house was a goldmine, full of artefacts and curios acquired over years of colonial plundering. He wandered into the crowded reception room, helping himself to a drink from a passing server. As he listened to snippets of conversation, one in particular caught his attention. He edged closer to the speaker.

‘Only spoke to Sir John last month. He was very excited; said he had finally obtained Senara’s box.’

‘Surely a myth,’ the listener scoffed. ‘Whoever releases the trapped soul within must give up their own. Poppycock!’

‘Maybe,’ replied the storyteller, ‘but Sir John was adamant it was the real thing; he said he was going unveil it to the world before he died.

‘What happened to this so-called legendary box?’

‘No one knows. It is said, there is a secret room somewhere in this house, if true, I’d imagine the box will be there.’

‘And, of course, no one has seen this room,’ the listener remarked, beckoning the wine waiter over.

Gordon made a mental note. Something like that could be worth a fortune. He strolled around the spacious house, looking for a place to gain access tonight. A small cloakroom on the ground floor was perfect.

Heading back into the main room, he knocked into a middle-aged, careworn maid carrying a tray of vol-au-vents. She desperately tried to keep the contents balanced but gravity won, resulting in a gooey mess on the floor.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she began.

‘For goodness sake, Alice,’ a tall blonde rushed over. ‘Get a cloth and clear this up immediately!’

‘My fault,’ Gordon mumbled. Keeping his head down, he headed outside to the landscaped gardens. Sitting on a low wall, he took out a cigarette and lit it up. Inhaling deeply, he recalled an incident from his childhood.

‘I’ll have to take you to work with me today, Gordon. Promise me you will be a good boy and not touch anything.’ The last thing a lively seven-year-old wanted on a hot summer’s day was to be stuck inside one of the stuffy houses my mother cleaned. So reluctantly, I took my books and sat at a small table in the hallway.

That particular day, Lady Annabelle’s sons were home for holidays from their prestigious boarding school. A year or two older than me, they delighted in mocking my clothes and accent. On that morning, they decided to throw a rugby ball at each other in the wide, tiled entrance. Angus, the elder of the two, threw it hard and fast towards me. I ducked, and the ball hit a plinth holding a grotesque pink vase. We watched in horror as it rocked from side to side, finally toppling to the floor and smashing into pieces. I was blamed, and my mother lost her job. Lady Annabelle had such influence over the other so-called ladies that they terminated mother’s services. Eventually, she found work at the local moulding factory, where years of breathing toxic fumes affected her health; she died of lung disease when I turned sixteen.

Three am. The house was in darkness. Pulling a balaclava over his face, Gordon squeezed through the small window he had left open earlier. He crept along the hallway, peering into rooms. A locked door challenged his skills. Taking out a small tool kit, he selected a long pin and twisted it in the lock. The click echoed loudly in the quiet of the house. A light flashed on upstairs and footsteps echoed above his head. He held his breath until a toilet flushed, more footsteps and then the light went out. Stepping into the room, he was disappointed to find nothing of value inside. Turning to leave, he noticed a strange blue glow radiating from a corner. Investigating closer, he realised it was coming from behind a wall. Pushing against it, a panel swung open, revealing a small windowless room. He stooped as he entered the chamber, the panel closing behind him with a soft click. His eyes were drawn to the source of the light, an intricately engraved box displayed on a white-clothed table in the centre of the room. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Gordon sighed. The glowing blue light drew him closer. Reaching out, he opened the lid.

. . .

Inspector George Carmichael, investigating thefts from homes of the wealthy recently deceased, was closing in on the prime subject, but Gordon Merryfield seemed to have vanished into thin air.