The Shell Grotto by Judy Mitchell

(A walk around the south shore of the Upper Lake in the grounds of Bretton Hall, now Yorkshire Sculpture Park, takes in the 18th century shell grotto. Once inhabited by a hermit, this magical place had views of the house, an obelisk and Greek temple on the opposite banks. It was designed to entertain and amuse the guests of the estate’s wealthy owner, Sir Thomas Wentworth Blackett.  Walks in the Park during lockdown prompted this fictional story.)

As she stood and waited, she reached out to run her fingers over the walls and ceiling. The movement of her arms seemed to prompt the slipping sun to catch the light from the soft waves on the lake and she spun around to see thousands of shimmering water nymphs dancing across the grotto. Her eyes followed their gliding shapes and the rippling streaks of silver which fell on to the pearlescent treasures above her head. Smiling at their magical ballet, she pointed her toes and stretched out her hands to join the dance. Her feet whirled in time with the water maidens and she was transported to a world deep beneath the sea in a cave of azure water. Silken, green sea-plants reached out to caress her body and she watched her own hair, which had become loose, tangle gently with the fronds in the underwater garden. 

Loosing herself in the turquoise water lasted only a few seconds as the fiery orb slid down behind the trees in the parkland and the dazzling lights of the water spirits vanished. She made to rise to the surface and leave the imagined deep, lifting her arms upwards and bringing them together above her head to break the water. 

There was a rush of terrestrial sound to her ears. Footsteps pounded down the path towards the grotto and the sound of snorting dogs became louder. There was no time to slip back into the deep blue waters.

‘Well, there you are,’ said the man as he arrived at the door of the grotto, blocking out some of the light and the view of the obelisk and the house on the bank beyond. His body was silhouetted against the light and she strained to see his features. Two dogs pulled on short ropes which he held in his hand. 

‘Are you coming out or do I have to come in and get you?’ 

She shook her head, refusing to move towards him and stayed at the back of the shallow cave, her body turned away from him. 

‘I’ll stay here so you can come out. I will hold off my dogs but only if you come out quietly. No shrieking or caterwauling. It will scare these beauties. Come on.’        

Her feet stepped forward until she reached the edge of the lake.  

‘Where is he?’ she whispered, looking up at the higher path above the grotto. In the distance she could see burning torches moving through the trees. 

‘Who are you looking for?’  

She made no reply.  

‘Walk towards the bridge. The other keepers are there.’

Every face she passed stared at her in the light of their torches but he was not one of them. She wanted to see the man with the pointed silver beard who wore a long white robe and had hair that reached down to his shoulders. He was unmistakeable, they had assured her. 

‘Look at his hands if you are unsure. The nails have never been cut and are longer than an eagle’s talons.’

Her captor followed her on the path towards the bridge and she could feel the heat of the dogs’ breath on her ankles. On the bridge, a man stood apart from the others, leaning on a stick. 

‘Why are you on Sir Thomas’s land? Is anyone with you?’

She shook her head but offered no explanation for being in the Park. Avoiding the man’s eyes, she looked down at her feet. 

‘Are you on your own?’

When she did not respond he moved towards her, placing his face only inches away from hers. His breath smelled sour and hot and she turned away to avoid the foul air.

‘Who were you waiting for?’

‘The Hermit. They said he was here. I have to find him. I think he can tell me where my mother has gone.’   

‘Don’t you know that he’s left? Weeks ago. The Master had grown tired of him seeking money from his house guests. He was supposed to entertain them but instead had taken to telling them scary stories, frightening them and their children. He had overstayed his welcome.’

‘They said he knew all things and would know where my mother was.’

‘Why, what happened to her?’  

‘She went away two weeks ago and has not been seen since.’ 

The man with the dogs walked her back over the bridge and up to the house where he handed her over to the housekeeper who scolded her for running off and staying out late.

It was three weeks later that a party aboard The Aurora, Sir Thomas’s boat, saw a body in the shallows of the lake and hauled in the ugly remains of a woman without clothes: bare except for a black rope around her neck and wrists.  

The young servant girl, who had started work only three months before the woman’s disappearance, was called upon to identify the body of her mother.  

They suspected the hermit and sought him throughout the county. A man with long silver hair, strange fingernails and a flowing gown would surely be easy to track down but he had slipped into obscurity as the seasons began to change. Attempts to bring him to justice failed.  The search was called off and the suspected murder went unsolved. 

Weeks later, on a night as black as coal and in driving wind and rain, they found another body. Enveloped in a thick woollen skirt and dark shawl, the slender shape of a young servant girl was found beside the Shell Grotto. In her clenched fist she held a tiny cowrie shell. Her body was wet as if she had been in the lake but those who knew her were certain that the profound state of melancholy which had descended on her after her mother’s murder was the real cause of her death.