Property of a Lady (29 page)

‘I ought to go out to Charect House tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘Jack’s builders won’t be there over the holiday, so I’d better make sure everything’s left secure. Frozen pipes,’ he said, remembering that this could be a problem for house-owners in the depths of winter. ‘Would it be all right if I turned up around half-past four, after Beth’s gone? It needn’t take more than an hour or so, but if I’m still here by six we might go down to the Black Boar afterwards for something to eat.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Would it be easier to have a meal here? Nothing elaborate – I could just put a casserole in the oven and leave it to simmer until we’re ready to eat.’

‘That would be nice.’ He got up to go. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Nell,’ he said.

Nell spent most of the night wondering what on earth had possessed her to invite Michael to dinner. It was the classic move if you fancied someone. Well, all right, she did fancy Michael. But she was not going to do anything about it. And she was making too much of this. It was only a friendly, convenient meal, meant to round off the search for clues about Brooke Crutchley, during which they could discuss their ghost. It was not as if she was going to put candles on the table or wear a low-cut gown and slink around offering wine in a purry voice. Nell determinedly reminded herself it was just the ghost that was drawing them together, but she was starting to think it was more than that. She looked across at Brad’s photo on the bedside table for reassurance. ‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ she said to the photo. ‘I’m not going to do anything. He’s just a friend, and this is a bizarre situation we’re both in, and it’s about protecting Beth – and Ellie Harper, too.’

The photograph stared blandly back. There was no animation behind it, no spark, no life. I don’t want you to become just a piece of paper in a frame, thought Nell, in panic. But I think you’re moving away from me – you’re becoming distant. Or am I going further away from you? You never saw Marston Lacy or this shop – you never even heard of the place. You don’t know the people I’m meeting now, and you don’t know Michael or anything about the Wilberforce stories he’s making up for Beth. And it’s starting to become really difficult to reach you in my mind, Brad, she thought, and I hadn’t bargained for that and I don’t know if I can bear it.

But when she finally did slide down into sleep, it was not Brad she was thinking about, it was Brooke Crutchley. It was disturbing to know she was in his house.

It felt odd to be putting together a casserole next day, knowing she would be serving it in what Beth would call a grown-up way. Wintry sunlight filtered into the kitchen and some of last night’s shadows dissolved. Nell enjoyed cubing meat and dicing bacon and mushrooms. She tipped all the ingredients into an iron casserole pot, poured in red wine, and added a sprinkling of herbs. The whole lot could go in the oven around three o’clock, where it would happily simmer on a very low heat for four hours, if not five. She would collect freshly-baked bread and cheese and fruit on the way to taking Beth to her party.

She had been determined not to watch the clock like a teenager on a first date, but after she dropped Beth off and got back home, she was very aware of half-past four arriving, and then quarter to five.

Michael arrived just before five, carrying a bottle of wine and apologizing for being a bit late. He had been out to Charect as planned and had got involved in a problem concerning a water tank, he said.

‘The builders wanted to fire up the central heating so they could leave a bit of heating on over the holiday,’ he said. ‘But there was something wrong with the pump and they can’t get a replacement until the second of January. So they’re draining all the water tanks and pipes to stop them freezing. At least, I think that’s what it is – does it sound about right to you?’

‘Yes,’ said Nell. ‘Would you like a cup of tea before making a start on the clues for the ghost?’

‘I’ll start right away, I think,’ said Michael. ‘It’s a pity it’s the depths of winter, isn’t it – it would be easier to do this in daylight. Because I was thinking the likeliest place to find anything is in the workshops, and I should think it’s a bit cold and dark out there in this weather.’

‘It’s not too bad, actually,’ said Nell, reaching for a jacket and woollen scarf. ‘There’s electricity out there, so we’ll be able to see what we’re doing.’

‘I’ve brought a torch,’ said Michael, sounding pleased at having thought of something so practical.

‘Well, that’ll be useful. And it isn’t as cold in there as you might think. There’s a horrible old iron stove, but I’ve never fired it. I had a couple of convector heaters put in.’

Nell was pleased to see that Michael liked the workshop. He prowled around, commenting on the scent of beeswax and oil, asking questions, and admiring a small Indian rosewood desk she had found under a heap of rubble in the Powys house sale and was stripping off several layers of Victorian varnish.

‘Where did you study all this?’

‘I’d like to say I did a Fine Arts degree, but I didn’t,’ said Nell. ‘I got on to a training scheme with one of the big auction houses. Not Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but not far off. A great piece of luck for me. It was quite intensive – a three-year apprenticeship, half working in the showrooms, half in a kind of training school. I do love working with all these old things.’

‘I can tell,’ he said, smiling.

‘I’m trying to think Brooke Crutchley did, as well,’ said Nell. ‘I find it a bit spooky knowing he worked here, and I’m not sure if I like the sound of him very much. But it’s easier if I can think of him enjoying what he did.’

‘I can’t see anything in here to give us any leads to him, can you?’ said Michael, shining the torch over the walls and up into the roof space and the rafters.

‘No.’

‘Is that the old stove? I don’t blame you for not trying to fire it.’

‘I hate it,’ said Nell. ‘It’s like a monstrous black toad crouching in the corner.’

‘I should think it dates back to Brooke’s time,’ said Michael, inspecting the stove, which was cast iron, with small doors at the front and a flue stretching up into the roof.

‘It’s Victorian design at its most florid,’ said Nell. ‘I’m going to have it ripped out when there’s enough money and the vent capped outside.’

‘There’s a door on one side. Here, where the wall is set back a bit. It doesn’t look as if it leads anywhere, but it’s too large to be a cupboard.’

‘It’s not a cupboard. It’s just a kind of alcove for cleaning the flue and raking out cinders and clinkers and things. In the days when they had cinders and clinkers.’

‘Can I take a look?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Nell came to stand next to him as he opened the door, which was set into the wall about eight inches higher than the floor level. It stuck for a moment, then opened with a dry, scraping sound. A shower of black dust cascaded out, and the stench of ancient soot and dirt came out at them like a clutching hand. They both coughed and backed away.

‘It’s a disgusting smell, isn’t it?’ said Nell. ‘It’ll clear in a minute, though. Hold on, I’ll prop the door open.’

‘Have you ever looked in here?’

‘Well, I did when I bought the place. I only glanced inside to see what it was, though. When the survey was done, the guy said everything seemed sound, but he didn’t think I should fire the stove.’

‘I shouldn’t think you’d ever want to,’ said Michael, glancing back at the stove, which jutted malevolently out into the room. He leaned forward into the recess, shining his torch over the walls. It was a small space, barely four feet square, and even with the door propped back against the wall it was still thick with the smell of dry soot and dirt.

‘It’s a horrible place,’ said Nell as Michael leaned deeper in and moved the torch’s beam over the walls, which were lined with sheets of cast iron. The wall backing on to the stove was pitted with centuries of heat. ‘It’s like a coffin standing upright.’

‘That’s an odd analogy to make,’ he said, moving the torch over the walls and floor. ‘There’s nothing in here, though, in fact— Oh!’

‘What?’ Nell peered over his shoulder. ‘Michael, what have you found?’

‘Down there.’ Michael moved back to allow her to see.

‘It’s a trapdoor,’ said Nell, puzzled. ‘I didn’t know there was a trapdoor.’

‘If you only glanced in that once, I don’t suppose you would. And the floor’s thick with soot and dirt.’

‘There must be an old cellar down there,’ said Nell, staring at the oblong outline of the trapdoor. It was wooden and very solid-looking, with an iron ring handle, flush with its surface.

‘Might it just be some kind of underground storage vault – something to do with the stove again? Only, I can’t think what,’ said Michael.

‘It’s a very large trapdoor for a storage area.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Do you want to see if we can open it?’

‘No,’ said Nell. ‘But if we don’t, I’ll have nightmares wondering what might be down there.’

Michael climbed over the low section of wall and knelt down on the edge of the trapdoor. ‘There isn’t much room to manoeuvre,’ he said.

‘Give me the torch.’

‘Thanks. Shine it directly down, will you? That’s better.’ He reached for the ring handle. ‘It feels as if it’s rusted in place.’

‘Try it anyway.’ Nell was kneeling just outside the recess, directing the torch on to the oblong of solid oak. Cobwebs brushed against her face like ribbons of dead skin, and she shuddered.

‘It won’t budge,’ said Michael, after a moment. He sat back on his heels. ‘It feels as if it’s brass or iron, and it’s stuck fast.’

‘Try turning it. Both ways. It might be a twist mechanism.’

‘No good,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I don’t think it’s locked, though. I think it’s just bedded in with rust and age. The same goes for the hinges.’ He tugged the handle again, using both hands, turning first left and then right. ‘It’s absolutely solid,’ he said, sitting back on his heels and wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘Damn. Nell, it’ll take dynamite to get this open. Or an axe.’

He looked so crestfallen that Nell smiled. ‘You really are the scholar in the ivory tower, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘There are more ways than one of skinning a cat or opening a cellar. Stay here – I’ll see what I can find.’ She put the torch down and went across to the back section of the workshop, to the tool box.

‘Try this,’ she said, setting down two large chisels and a can of oil. ‘We drench the handle and the hinges in oil and let it soak in for a few moments. It might free the handle enough for it to turn. If it does we’ll tie my scarf round it – that’ll make it easier to pull the door up. If we can raise it even a little way, we can put this larger chisel in as a wedge so it won’t bang down again.’

‘Do you know,’ said Michael, ‘you constantly delight me.’

‘Do I?’ said Nell, absently. ‘That’s nice. Here’s the oil. Just slosh it straight on. You’re nearer to the handle than I am.’

‘Are you coming in here with me?’ asked Michael, taking the oil and sprinkling it liberally over the handle and the hinges.

‘Yes, I’m going to scrape out some of the accreted dirt around the edges of the trap,’ said Nell, climbing over the low wall. The recess was as unpleasant as she had expected: hot and slightly claustrophobic, and when she knelt down she felt the crunch of the old, dried cinders from the stove under her knees.

‘Are you sure you’re all right about all this?’ said Michael, reaching for the other chisel to help.

‘Not really. But let’s do it. There’s probably nothing down there except years of dirt.’

‘Fair enough.’ He scraped diligently for several moments, then said, ‘I think that’s got most of the dirt out. Let’s see if the handle will move now.’ He grasped it firmly, and this time it lifted slightly. Michael looked up, his eyes shining. ‘You clever girl,’ he said. ‘The oil’s worked. Where’s your scarf – thanks.’ He knotted the long woollen scarf tightly round the handle and stood up, moving to the edge of the trapdoor, his back almost flat against the stove wall.

‘Be careful the handle doesn’t snap off or it really will be an axe job,’ said Nell, moving back to give him room.

‘You couldn’t swing a cat in here, never mind an axe.’

At first they both thought that, after all, the door was too tightly wedged to move at all. ‘And the wood has probably warped over the years as well,’ said Nell, frowning. ‘That won’t make it any easier.’

‘It’s moving,’ said Michael suddenly, and with a dry, scraping sound the trapdoor began to lift. It did so slowly and with a screech of splintering wood and protesting hinges that tore through the quiet workshop like a soul in torment. A thin black line showed around the edges of the door.

‘Is it heavy?’ said Nell anxiously. ‘Let me help.’

‘It’s all right – it’s nearly there. Put the chisel in place in case the scarf slips.’

But the scarf stayed in place, and the door, once freed, came up relatively easily. Dry, foetid air gusted out from the black gaping hole, and Nell gasped and backed away.

‘The smell’s even more disgusting than this recess,’ Michael said.

‘At least it doesn’t smell of damp.’

‘That’s about all it doesn’t smell of.’

They pushed the trapdoor back against the stove wall. It clanged against the pitted iron sheet, and Nell saw there was a deep indentation where the door must have rested many times before.