My plans for the morning took an unexpected turn when Jason Bandswich from the Manor called. Not that it’s unusual for him to call, he’s a sweet boy, an American tech genius who sold something terribly clever for a ridiculous amount of money and decided to take a break from ‘the scene’ by exploring his British roots.

Although what twenty-something-year-old explores their roots by discovering the ancestral home his great grandfather left behind for a new life in the New World was all but derelict, and buying it to restore? He’s doing a lovely job of it, consults our ‘local historians’ on anything and everything – they’re feeling so important, and he keeps them busy enough they can’t pester old Mrs Greenwell at the Grange – and tries to use local businesses as much as possible.

Between that and his ongoing delight in his unconventional housemates, he’s a general favourite in the district.

He sounded a little worried, so I decided to leave the potion work for another day and popped right over.

He opened the front door before I was even out of the car.

“Glad you got here so quick, Lady Charlotte is,” he glanced at the hallway behind him, stepped out of the house and whispered, “having a hissy fit.”

A woman’s voice echoed from within. “Whatever a hissy fit is, I’m not having it, it sounds crass.”

Lady Charlotte was, indeed, having a hissy fit.

Jason had told me on moving in he’d hoped for a ghost or two, but Lady Charlotte was a gift beyond compare.

A spirit who’d died young and been caught in her own wedding portrait, a stunning, full-length depiction of a gracious brunette in a deep red gown; she ruled the roost, flitting from one painting to another to roam the entire house.

It wasn’t even a month before Jason had worked out she could enter any painting – oils, watercolour, acrylics, even inks – but photographs were blocked. They also discovered her outfit changed to match the subject of the painting she was visiting. Which is why nudes are banned.

I followed Jason over the threshold and found Lady Charlotte pacing the street of a rainy night in Paris, looking chic and fretful in a cherry red overcoat. “Thank goodness you’re here. There’s something strange in the sewing room. It took both the Carl Larssons. I barely made it to the Cezanne reproduction in the corridor in time.”

She fluttered a hand at her face. “What if it’s HIM, come to get me?”

HIM was Lady Charlotte’s husband, and the reason for her early demise.

Jason puffed up, red-faced. “Why didn’t you say? I’ll sort him out, no one’s abducting you on my watch.”

Lady Charlotte’s face relaxed, she blew him a kiss, Jason’s face got redder. Time to interrupt. “The sewing room, you say?”

I saw the problem as soon as I opened the door. Someone had released a pocket dimension into the room. The who, how, and why would have to wait for later. Right now I needed to contain it, and retrieve the paintings. The room was one of Lady Charlotte’s favourites, so I have reason to believe the charming paintings of a happy family in Sweden were equally treasured.

I spoke without turning. “Fetch me a shopping bag, preferably one of those ones that squish into a mini bag of their own.

I heard footsteps running away from me, then back, and a bag-in-a-bag was pressed into my hand. I shook it out and aimed the mouth of the larger bag towards the shimmer quivering around the room. What most people don’t know about pocket dimensions is that they don’t like to be unconfined, they like small spaces, like sock drawers and inside tumble dryers. As soon as I got the bag within sensing distance, the strangeness that isn’t quite sentient, but isn’t quite not, rushed within, puffing out the fabric, then subsiding with what felt like a quiver of relief.

I reached into the bag, Jason squeaked, I smiled reassuringly (I hope) and pulled out the two paintings.

“Here, I’ll need to go through and see if there are any more odds and ends in there to cause problems. Do you want if back once I’m done?”

Jason eyed the bag like he thought it would bite him. “No, I’m good, I usually get home delivery. All yours.”

He clearly wasn’t thinking this through. A pocket dimension in a shopping bag? Convenient is an understatement. I’ve decided to give the whole thing a good clear-out, and check with him again, once things have settled. If he still doesn’t want it, well, I’ll have done the right thing and come out of it with a bag that never fills up and never gets heavy.

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