At first he thought there was not going to be anything of any interest about Deadlight Hall. There was the original land purchase which showed the Hall had been built in the early 1800s, but it then seemed to vanish into what the assistant had called its ‘lost years’.
There was an apology on the home page for the incomplete state of some of the documents, and the total absence of others, but explaining that the ravages of time, not to mention mice, damp, and the attentions of the Luftwaffe, had all wrought substantial damage. The main archives department in Oxford might, however, be able to fill in any gaps.
Michael scrolled forward patiently, and was relieved to see that Deadlight Hall sprang back into being in 1877, when a worthy-sounding organization called the Breadspear Trust had acquired it. He made a note of this, and moved to the next entry, which dealt with the Trust’s obligations and administration. It seemed to have been partly governed by a philanthropically minded Mr Breadspear, and partly by the Parish and the Poor Relief Committee. He was rather intrigued to discover that the present Welfare State descended from the original Vagabond Act of the 1400s, a fearsome-sounding law that had required the arrest of vagabonds and persons suspected of living suspiciously. The legislation had apparently been repealed a great many times, and it was probably as well that an original clause requiring these hapless (or perhaps they had been merely feckless) souls to be set in the stocks, pierced through the ear, or handed the materials to build a house of correction, was no longer in force.
The next page opened up a series of letters, which had apparently been attached to the transfer of title to the Trust, and which had been scanned in as being of possible interest to students of local history. At first sight they were so indistinct as to be almost illegible, but letters were always promising, so Michael zoomed up the viewing, which helped, and began to read.
The letters commenced with the appointment of one Mrs Maria Porringer (widow of this parish), to a slightly ambiguous-sounding role at Deadlight Hall. It appeared to be a combination of housekeeper, superintendent and general factotum, and required her to be responsible for:
The well-being and moral behaviour of all children placed in Deadlight Hall … To ensure such children are brought up to be honest, sober, God-fearing and grateful … To ensure that, as soon as the said children are of sufficient age, they are sent to places of work where they must be obedient, punctual, diligent, and honest.
Remuneration to the said Mrs Maria Porringer to be as agreed and set down in correspondence with her dated the 10th day of August in the year 1878.
Signed, for and on behalf of, the Parish Council.
Augustus Breadspear, Salamander House.
Salamander House, thought Michael. Dragons and elemental fire-creatures, and a Victorian gentleman with a name that might have come from the pages of Charles Dickens.
At first sight, the documents struck a benevolent note, as if the young persons in question were being housed and schooled by kindly mentors or teachers. ‘Brought up to be honest, sober and God-fearing’ was fair enough, particularly given the era, but Michael did not like the sound of ‘grateful’. The places of work might mean apprenticeships in the old and good sense of the word – the indenturing of boys and girls to skilled masters to learn a useful trade. But the nineteenth century had had a grim habit of employing young children from poor backgrounds, and forcing them to work impossibly long hours in mills and manufactories. The literature of the time was filled with brutal places that had housed children, from Dotheboys Hall to the baby farms of Oliver Twist, and it was peppered with Mr Creakles and Daniel Quilps. All fictional places and people, but based on grim reality.
Michael scrolled on to the next set of letters.
Deadlight Hall
September 1878