Blood From a Stone (32 page)

Teeth. Get his teeth into something. Biting off more than he could chew ... The voices in the dining room swelled back to full volume.

Mrs Welbeck's teeth!

‘Did Frank have my sapphires?' demanded Evie.

‘Of course not,' bit back Celia. ‘He said they were in a box in his dressing room. Is that all you care about? What about Dad?'

Evie's voice had ice in it. ‘My dear girl, your father is under arrest. What's more, he only has himself to blame. In the most underhanded way he brought a man into the house who would certainly not have been welcome under his own name, told a pack of lies from start to finish and ended up by stealing from me, his own wife. I cannot be expected to be dripping with sympathy. I am going to retrieve my sapphires.'

Jack heard her heels clicking across the parquet flooring to the door. He dodged down the hallway and out of sight behind a heavy velvet tasselled curtain. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to confront the seething Mrs Leigh. He watched her march up the stairs, fury radiating from every stiff line
of her body.

His mind was racing. He had an idea. Mrs Welbeck's teeth, last night's séance, the murder on the train, Evie Leigh's sapphires – everything came together and made sense.

And yet ... an idea remained just an idea without any proof.

How on earth
could
he prove it? Dr and Mrs Mountford would know. He looked across the hall at the telephone in its cabinet. It would be easy enough to pick up the phone. Easy enough to drive over to Topfordham, to speak to the Mountfords, and then ... Then what? Part of the mystery
might
be solved but he couldn't be certain. Besides that, it would all take time. Was there anything he could do now?

The cave. Yes. He was sure he was on the right lines with the cave. He clicked his tongue. He, Ashley and Isabelle had searched the cave very thoroughly before lunch. The cave held its secret closely. He needed a guide.

Jack drew his breath in and nearly laughed out loud.
Throckmorton's book!
Of course! That earnest Victorian vicar, that persistent antiquarian, that learned man, with his knowledge of Tacitus and Sidonius Apollinaris, probably knew more about the cave than any man ever had and the results of his labours were contained in a dumpy little volume which had sat on a library shelf for the last eighty-odd years, unread and unregarded until Duggleby picked it up.

Was it in the library or was it in Duggleby's room? He glanced up the stairs.

Mrs Leigh's footsteps had clicked away into silence. The arguments still rumbled on in the dining room. It sounded as if Celia was being comforted by Duggleby. Unlike Evie Leigh, he was being very sympathetic indeed. Now was his chance.

Keeping a wary eye on the open door of the dining room, Jack ran lightly up the stairs.

Duggleby's room wasn't far from Jack's own and, if Jack's bedroom was anything to go off, shouldn't take long to search. Bachelor guests were not expected to take up a lot of space and were given correspondingly small rooms. After trying a couple of unoccupied rooms, Jack found Duggleby's. Throckmorton's book was in plain sight on the dressing table.

Brilliant! Picking up the book – it was too big for his pocket – he closed the door quietly behind him and headed down the stairs.

This time he wasn't so lucky. As he drew level with the dining room, Isabelle, Celia and Duggleby came out of the room.

At the sight of him, Celia drew back with a sort of revolted gasp, regarding him with deep and haughty loathing. ‘You! I suppose you're proud of yourself,
Major
Haldean!'

‘Come on, Celia,' pleaded Jack, adjusting the book so the title on the spine wasn't visible. ‘Get off your high horse. It doesn't suit you.'

‘Don't you dare talk to me like that, Jack,' snarled Celia. ‘How you've got the nerve to look me in the face, I don't know.'

‘That's better,' said Jack cheerfully. ‘What on earth should I have done? Your father was an absolute menace to himself and everyone around him, waving that gun around. Absolute danger to traffic, I tell you. I managed to stop him loosing off with a revolver and the next thing he did was grab hold of a shotgun. Blinkin' nasty weapon, a shotgun.'

‘He wouldn't have harmed you,' sniffed Celia. Duggleby put an arm round her shoulders. ‘You know he's good and kind and ... and ...'

‘A bit of an idiot,' finished Jack. ‘And, although I'm not looking for adulation or anything, thanks to me, still alive.'

‘What's that book you're holding?' asked Duggleby over Celia's shoulder. ‘Throckmorton?'

There was nothing for it but to come clean.

‘That's right,' said Jack as casually as he could manage. ‘I thought I'd go in the garden and read.'

‘But I left it in my room. I'm sure I did.'

‘This is another copy. I found it in the library.'

‘Oh? I didn't realise there was another copy,' said Duggleby, his eyes glinting with sudden interest. ‘Can I see? There might be some additions to the text. Marginalia, perhaps.'

Celia drew in her breath in exasperation. ‘What does it matter
which
stupid book it is? I can't imagine anyone thinking of books at a time like this. Don't let us stop you, Jack. You can relax now my father's in
prison
.' She shook herself free of Duggleby's arm. ‘Come on, Len. I want to go and see him.'

With a final disgusted glare at Jack, she stalked off down the hall. Duggleby shuffled from foot to foot indecisively. Halfway down the hall Celia turned and called, ‘Leonard!' Duggleby shrugged and went after her.

‘Whew!' said Isabelle when they had gone. ‘I don't think she's too gone on you at the moment. It's so unfair, Jack.'

‘Never mind about Celia,' he said, making for the door. ‘Come on, let's get out of here before anyone else collars us.'

‘What's all the hurry about?' asked Isabelle as they walked down the steps and away from the house.

‘I want to put as much distance between myself and Duggleby as possible. If he's going down to the village with Celia, he'll probably want to go up to his room to change his jacket. He's bound to notice his book's missing.'

Isabelle's eyebrows shot up. ‘So it is his copy?'

‘Yes, of course it is. I nicked it from his room.'

‘But why?'

‘Because I wanted to read it, Isabelle. I've got an idea about the cave and I wanted to see what Throckmorton says about it. I've an idea he might prove a very illuminating guide.'

‘So we're going to the cave?' asked Isabelle in dismay. ‘I can't, Jack, not in these shoes.'

‘Why do girls always wear such ridiculous shoes?' asked Jack in amused exasperation. ‘You don't have to come at all if you'd rather not.'

‘Don't be silly. I'll go and change and meet you up at the temple.'

By the time Isabelle, attired in what she described as walking shoes (‘What other sort are there?' wondered Jack) reached the temple, Jack was lolling on a stone bench, cigarette in hand, deeply immersed in the works of the late Reverend Bertram Throckmorton. The temple walls were smudged with smoke and the marble floor was muddy with the marks of boots and wheelbarrow tracks from the day's work.

‘Have you found anything?' she asked eagerly as she sat beside him.

‘Getting there,' he replied abstractedly. He looked her up and down and grinned. ‘Good grief, Belle, I thought you were only changing your shoes. I didn't realise you were putting on an entirely new outfit. No wonder you took so long.'

‘I couldn't possibly wear these shoes with the dress I had on. I had to change.'

‘We're going to explore a cave, not go out to lunch. Why on earth have you got your handbag?'

‘This dress hasn't got any pockets. Besides, I always carry my handbag. I had to change that, too, of course.'

Jack grinned once more and muttered something which sounded like
girls.

‘There's one thing, at any rate,' he said, nodding to where the gardeners were upending a wheelbarrow full of earth and rubble onto the grass. ‘My pal Sam assures me that no-one's been in the cave all day. Not that,' he added, ‘anyone's had much opportunity, what with stolen sapphires, dissension in the household and Mine Host being lugged off to quod. Anyway,' he said, picking up the book again, ‘let me see if I can get anything out of Throckmorton. He's a long-winded beggar and far too given to classical allusions and scholarly footnotes, but informative, all the same.'

Isabelle lit a cigarette and let him read. He wasn't, she noticed, reading the book word for word, but skipping through it with the practised manner of an experienced reader who knew what he was looking for. It must have been nearly quarter of an hour later when he gave a muttered grunt, and, turning back the page, read it again.

He looked up and took a deep breath. ‘Got it,' he said quietly. He closed the book. ‘The next thing, Belle, is to see if Mr Throckmorton's information is accurate.'

He stood up and waved at the gardeners. ‘Oi! Sam! Can we go into the cave?'

‘You can, sir,' said Sam, coming towards them, wiping his face with a large red handkerchief. ‘I reckon we've just about finished for the day. We'll have to shore up and make good the entrance and the walls with some props, but we'll tackle that tomorrow. It's a nuisance you can't find that diamond bracelet, sir.'

‘Mrs Stanton's come to give me a hand,' said Jack with a smile. ‘I think she's got sharper eyes than I have.'

‘Especially where diamonds are concerned,' said Isabelle, a remark which made Sam grin broadly.

‘Well, best of luck, sir – miss. It
should
be safe enough, I'd say, as long as you watch your footing.'

Picking their way over the uneven ground, Jack and Isabelle, torches in hand, went into the passage and scrambled through the dug-out entrance into the cave.

Instinctively keeping their voices low, they approached the altar. Isabelle couldn't repress a shudder as she looked at
the snarl of jagged teeth, now blackened with smoke. She reached out her hand and touched the stone, then drew it away sharply.

‘What is it?'

‘I felt something,' she said shining her torch to where her hand touched the stone. ‘It's a piece of string or cord, Jack,' she said puzzled. ‘What's it for?'

A short piece of thin cord projected from the bottom of the altar. ‘It's woven into the carving, somehow. The carvings look solid, but there's actually a bit of space behind them. The cord looks new. I don't think it's been here long.'

‘There's a piece sticking out of the other side as well,' said Jack, shining his torch along the bottom of the altar. ‘That's a puzzle, Belle. I've no idea what it's for.'

‘This isn't what you wanted to show me, is it?'

‘No,' said Jack with a grin. ‘I've got something a bit more exciting up my sleeve – if Throckmorton can be relied on, that is. Let me show you.'

She followed him up the altar steps and round the back.

‘Hold my torch,' said Jack, handing it to her and kneeling down. ‘Keep the light steady, old thing.' He stretched out his arms wide and pressed hard into the two top corners of the altar. ‘If I can just get this right ... Throckmorton says I have to lift and pull ...' He grunted involuntarily.

Isabelle gasped. The back of the altar, a solid block of stone, came away and slid into the ground, leaving a dark, oblong hollow.

Jack shone his torch into the darkness and visibly relaxed.

‘What were you expecting?' asked Isabelle.

‘A body,' said Jack, standing back. ‘The body which has so mysteriously vanished. But,' he said with a shrug, ‘as you can see for yourself, it's empty.'

‘I can't say I'm sorry,' said Isabelle fervently.

‘No ... It's interesting how this works,' he said, running his hand over the pulley. ‘You can see the weights and levers. Throckmorton, bless his Victorian heart, restored it and wrote a very long piece about the mechanics of the thing into the bargain.'

‘I wonder if that piece of cord I found has anything to do
with it?'

‘It might have, but I can't see what, exactly. As you can see, there's a stone slab to sit on inside and steps going down. The steps lead on to a passage, which according to the Reverend, runs right the way to the cellars of the house.'

Isabelle crouched down and looked into the blackness. ‘I don't like the look of that hole. The cellars are medieval, aren't they?'

‘They're at least medieval, I'd say. They stretch for a dickens of a long way, I do know that.'

‘I bet they're Roman, Jack,' said Isabelle. ‘After all, this is an authentic Roman altar, so they could be.'

Jack nodded. ‘Yes, it's not so great a leap of the imagination to say there once was a Roman villa on the site of the house. Throckmorton says that the altar had a trick, a way for the old priests to achieve a very scary effect. Let's see if it works.'

He took back his torch. ‘Go round the front and turn your torch off.'

Isabelle did so. As she turned back to look at the altar, she drew her breath in a startled gasp.

The face on the altar seemed to come to life. In the complete blackness of the cave, the eyes started out, glowing, malevolent embers above the evil snarl of teeth. It was, Isabelle knew, nothing more than a trick of the light, but the mouth and the teeth seemed to be dripping with blood.

‘Good effect, is it?' said Jack, climbing out from the altar.

‘It's really scary,' said Isabelle, a bit shakily. ‘Here, let me hold the torch so you can have a look.'

Jack obediently gave up his place and went to the front of the altar. ‘Good God!' he said involuntarily. ‘That'd scare the pants off anybody, particularly if there was chanting and wailing going on.'