The Bookman's Tale (31 page)

P
eter remembered with photographic accuracy the moment when Amanda told him she had a headache. It hadn’t seemed important at the time so Peter didn’t know why he remembered that moment so well, but he did. They had just returned from their final visit to London to find news of another delay in the renovations of their cottage in Kingham, and Amanda, who usually brushed off such delays with a laugh and a comment about contractors being the same the world over, had slammed her fist on the telephone table in frustration.

“I’m starting to think I’m never going to see this project done,” she said.

She stood by the window, the afternoon sun glowing in a few stray wisps of hair, her brow knitted in consternation, her lips pursed. Perhaps Peter remembered the moment because he had so rarely seen Amanda angry.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Amanda, and the tension seemed to flow out of her in a second. “I just have a headache, that’s all.” After a nap and a cup of tea, Amanda felt better, and neither of them thought anything more of it. That she had another headache on the flight home the next week was hardly unusual—Peter had one, too. Could anyone in that business-class cabin with that crying baby not have a headache? Peter thought perhaps he would let Amanda pay for first-class tickets the next time.

—

S
arah and Charlie Ridgefield threw a sixth anniversary party for Peter and Amanda a week after they returned home. “You were off buying books on your fifth,” said Sarah, “so we’ll just do it this year instead.” Amanda hadn’t felt well that morning, another headache and an upset stomach, and Peter had insisted she go back to bed, not daring to give voice to the secret fantasy he was now harboring—that she had, by some miracle, become pregnant. As Amanda dozed on the living room sofa with the curtains drawn that afternoon, he recalled the expression on her face when he had ordered Coke instead of tea at the Tate Gallery café two weeks earlier—how could her amused, loving, protective face have been anything but maternal? How was it possible that Amanda would not one day bear a child? Peter thought perhaps, if her latest symptoms were not indicative of a miracle, the time might be right to bring up adoption. He needed something to father besides his book business, he thought; Amanda needed something to mother besides her English cottage.

She had felt better by the time of the party, though Peter hadn’t seen her much that evening. Cynthia, who was now writing for a newspaper in Virginia, was back in Ridgefield for the weekend. Amanda and Cynthia hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, and, despite weekly hour-long phone conversations, they were desperate to catch up and spent most of the evening huddled together in a far corner of the patio. As for Peter, after that unpleasant period of awkward reintroductions to family friends that he had not seen since his wedding, he settled down at a table with Charlie Ridgefield. His father-in-law had not mentioned the subject of money since the night before Peter’s wedding. Tonight the two talked about European travel and Ridgefield’s upcoming football season.

All evening Peter watched Amanda out of the corner of his eye and wondered what secrets she was sharing with Cynthia and whether they included a piece of joyful news that she would share with him when they got home. But when the party was over, Amanda was exhausted and she asked Peter if they had to drive home. “Couldn’t we just crash in the guest room?” she said, and Peter said yes. She was sound asleep before he had finished brushing his teeth.

—

T
here are days when, without prior notice, your life changes in some fundamental way. When Peter awoke bathed in the morning sun on May 14, 1994, he suspected that today might be one of those days. He was convinced that Amanda had shared some earth-shaking news with Cynthia the night before and that today she would tell him. By now the slim hope that she might be pregnant had solidified into a near certainty. When he got up, letting his wife sleep, he spent ten minutes in front of the bathroom mirror practicing expressions of surprise.

Peter, Sarah, and Charlie had eaten breakfast, and Charlie was just saying that he might go into the office for a couple of hours even though it was a Saturday, when a scream erupted from upstairs. Peter knew at once it was not a scream of fear or anger, but a cry of pain. He was first by Amanda’s bedside, where she sat holding her head and rocking back and forth, moaning loudly, but Charlie Ridgefield shoved him aside and scooped his daughter into his arms.

Amanda screamed again as Charlie took the stairs two at a time, trailing Peter and Sarah in his wake. “Get to the car,” was all Sarah could manage to say. Peter looked to see tears streaming down her cheeks and sprinted for Charlie’s BMW parked in the front drive. Charlie was slipping into the backseat with Amanda, who was still crying in apparent agony, and before Peter could decide where he should go, Sarah jerked open the driver’s door and jumped in. Peter barely had time to get into the passenger seat before Sarah sped off, spewing gravel behind them.

In the backseat Charlie cradled Amanda, who was quieter now—Peter could hear the words “My head” every so often, but other than that her cries had been reduced to low moans. Sarah skidded onto the main road, tires squealing as she accelerated in the direction of Ridgefield Hospital. Peter felt utterly helpless—no more than a spectator in someone else’s family drama.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Charlie Ridgefield’s new car, Peter Byerly, who had started his morning with such hope two hours earlier, had a creeping dread that his life was over.

“L
ook,” said Liz, “I got locked in this chapel with you and I came down into the bloody dungeon, but this is mad. I’m not going down those stairs into God knows what.”

“We’re not going out the way we came in,” said Peter, shoving the contents of Gardner’s tomb into his satchel. “So we might as well try this.” Staring at the black hole before him, Peter immediately thought of Alice blithely following the White Rabbit down its hole. The claustrophobic picture of Alice from the manuscript in the British Museum flashed before him, but for now at least, curiosity and adrenaline seemed to be winning the battle with panic and claustrophobia, as he started tentatively down the damp stone steps, running the fingers of one hand against the rough wall while his other hand grasped the flashlight and the handle of his satchel ever more firmly.

“Peter,” called Liz from above, “there’s something else in the bottom of the box. Don’t you want to read it?”

“We’ll read it when we get to wherever this leads,” said Peter, taking another step down.

“It’s dark up here without the flashlight,” said Liz, hysteria in her voice.

Peter stopped and pointed the flashlight behind him. “Well, come on then,” he said. There was silence for a moment, and then he heard slow footsteps on the stairs above him. In another minute he felt Liz’s hand on his shoulder, and he started forward again as she guided herself behind him.

“Did I mention I have claustrophobia?” said Liz. “Oh wait, I did—when you lured me into this hellhole.”

“I have it, too,” said Peter, but as he continued to descend he felt strangely calm. “This isn’t so bad.”

“That’s what you think,” said Liz.

The stairs curved slightly as they descended, so by the time Peter reached the bottom, he had no idea what direction they were facing. In front of him the flashlight revealed a low, narrow passage sloping down and disappearing around another curve. The tunnel was just high enough for Peter to stand up in, and barely wider than his shoulders.

“That was fifty-two steps,” said Liz, her hand gripping Peter’s shoulder tightly.

“You counted?”

“How deep do you think we are?” said Liz. “No, don’t answer that.”

Peter started forward but was jerked back by Liz grasping his shirt.

“Are you sure we should do this?” she said. “I don’t like this, I really don’t.”

“It looks perfectly harmless,” said Peter.

“I can’t see,” said Liz. “You’re blocking out all the light from the bloody flashlight.”

“Actually there isn’t much light from the flashlight, so we better get moving,” said Peter.

“Well, I feel so much better now,” said Liz, but this time she followed Peter as he started forward, though she did not loosen her grip on his shirt. “At least you’re taller than I am,” she said, forcing a laugh. “So it will be your head that gets cracked on the ceiling.”

Peter had actually considered this possibility, and he waved the flashlight gently up and down as he shuffled forward, illuminating the floor and the ceiling in turn. He pressed forward a bit more quickly, almost pulling Liz along behind him, hoping they might reach an exit before the flashlight completely died.

“I wonder if this is where they hid all those soldiers in the Civil War,” said Peter.

“I wonder if any of them died down here,” said Liz. After another minute of walking she added, “We’re going down pretty steeply.”

“Maybe we have to get under the river,” said Peter.

“Bugger,” said Liz, stopping again. “I can’t do this. I can’t walk under a fucking river. We have to go back.”

“Haven’t you ever driven through the Lincoln Tunnel?” said Peter.

“No I have not driven through the bloody Lincoln Tunnel,” said Liz. “I’m from London. We have bridges.”

Peter felt the envelope of pills nestled in his jacket pocket and wondered if he ought to give her one but decided it was best to simply keep pressing forward. “Come on,” he said. “You can do this. I’m with you. Here, hold my hand.”

Peter reached his free hand behind his back and Liz gripped it tightly, almost crushing his fingers, but Peter did not complain. If he could somehow communicate his calm to her through this contact, it was worth a little pain. “Ready?” he said.

“No,” said Liz. “But let’s go anyway.”

They walked on without speaking for several minutes, Liz’s shallow breathing and their shoes sliding across the stones the only sounds in the tunnel. Peter did not mention that the flashlight beam had faded to the point of uselessness and that only by holding his satchel in front of him could he hope to detect any sudden barrier. Every few seconds Liz would squeeze his hand sharply, and Peter found himself relishing her need for him. As long as she needed him to calm her, he thought, he wouldn’t panic himself.

“I think we’re starting to go up again,” he said after a few more minutes.

“Toward the light?” said Liz. “Do you see any light?”

“Not yet,” said Peter, trying to pull her along more quickly. He had felt a sudden chill, as if the cold of the river were seeping into the tunnel, but he hoped it had been only that they had reached the deepest part of the tunnel, where centuries of cold lurked.

“Why is it so dark?” said Liz a moment later. “It seems really fucking dark. Peter stop. Stop, it’s too dark.” She once again came to a halt, pulling hard on Peter’s hand and, with her free hand, on his shirt. Peter felt her arm slip around his chest and her head press against his back as the flashlight finally faded away. They were in absolute darkness. He heard Liz begin to cry softly.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just close your eyes and let me lead you.” Peter took a deep breath and let his back relax into Liz. He suddenly remembered the way Amanda used to sneak up behind him and slip her arms around him, pulling him tight to her chest so he could feel her breasts pressed into his back.

“Keep going,” Amanda said now. “You can do this. You can make it to the other end. You can make it out.”

He stepped forward and let Liz loosen her grip on him, still holding her hand. Her breathing seemed to be steadier now.

“Eyes closed?” said Peter.

“Yes,” whispered Liz.

“Now, you’re just walking down the corridor of your flat late at night. Just take one step at a time.” They walked for what seemed to Peter like an eternity. He didn’t dare speak, for fear he would trigger more panic in Liz. The slope of the floor gradually steepened, but in spite of the climb he increased his pace as much as he dared. He tried not to think about the possibility that there might be no exit, that they would have to turn around in these cramped confines and retrace their steps.

“How far do you think we’ve come?” said Liz, her voice steadier than it had been since they entered the tunnel.

“We must be nearly there,” said Peter, who had no way of knowing this but could think of nothing else to say. Had they come a mile? Two? Certainly if they had been walking this long aboveground they could have reached Chipping Norton by now. Peter had tried not to think about either time or distance, but he had to guess it had been over an hour since they had descended the stairs from the crypt.

“Peter,” said Liz.

“What is it?” said Peter, still moving forward.

“It sounds different.”

“Are your eyes still closed?” said Peter.

“Yes, and it sounds different. More hollow or something.”

“Maybe we’re coming to the end,” said Peter.

“What if we can’t get out?” said Liz, shaking Peter’s hand in hers. “What if we come to the end and we can’t get out?”

“We’ll be able to get out.”

“You don’t know that,” said Liz, her voice rising. “How can you know that? What if we have to go back? I don’t think I can go back. Oh, Jesus fuck, we’re going to die in here, aren’t we? We’re going to die in this fucking place.” She stopped again, forcing Peter to stop as well, and now he could hear her sobbing in great heaves.

“We’re not going to die,” said Peter.

“How do you know?” wailed Liz, her voice echoing down the tunnel. “How can you possibly know?”

“I’ll tell you how I know,” said Peter, gently squeezing Liz’s hand. “Just take a deep breath and listen and I’ll tell you.” He listened as her breathing slowed and the choking sounds of her sobs faded.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“I’ve never told anyone this before, but I can trust you, right?”

“Yes,” said Liz softly.

“Okay,” said Peter. Still holding her hand, he began moving forward again as he spoke. “Ever since Amanda, my wife, ever since she died, sometimes she talks to me. I don’t mean that I imagine her voice or that I remember things that she said, but she just shows up and says things. Sometimes it’s when I really need her, and sometimes it’s when I least expect it. Like when we had lunch at that Italian restaurant, remember that?”

“Yes,” said Liz.

“Well, she was there. Just for a second, she was standing across the room and she told me to tell you that story about going to the opera.”

Liz was silent.

“I know it sounds like I’m crazy, but believe me I’m not. And whenever she tells me to do something, it turns out to be the right thing. Anyhow, she was here a while ago, not long after we started, and she said that we would make it. She said we would make it to the other side and we would get out.”

“Really?” said Liz, and Peter was relieved to hear in her voice not skepticism or sarcasm but hope.

“Really,” said Peter. And as he voiced the word, he hit something hard with his toe and nearly toppled forward.

“What is it?”

“I think it’s another flight of steps,” said Peter, feeling in the darkness with his foot.

“I can’t go down again,” said Liz. “I just can’t do it.”

“They don’t go down,” said Peter. “They go up.” And they began to climb.

Peter hadn’t felt out of breath during their whole underground journey, but he found himself gasping for air as the steps curved round and round, on and on.

“That’s fifty-two,” said Liz. “That’s how many we came down.” But still the steps went up and up in the darkness. Finally Peter stopped.

“I’ve got to rest,” he said.

“Keep going,” said Liz. “I can take the pain in my legs if we can just get out of here.” And so they climbed on. “That was two hundred,” said Liz a few minutes later. By the way, I have my eyes open now.”

Peter lifted his foot for the next step and felt nothing. “I think we’re at the top,” he said, sliding his foot forward across smooth stone. He took two more steps forward and his satchel hit something solid. He stopped, and over the sound of his panting he could hear Liz.

“Let there be a way out,” she said. “Let there be a way out.”

Peter set down his bag and dropped Liz’s hand. She grasped his shirt as he felt the wall in front of him.

“It’s wood,” he said.

“Is it a door?” said Liz.

“It must be,” said Peter, though he knew it might just as easily be a solid wall. He ran his hands across the barrier starting at the top and working his way down, lightly touching the wood with his fingertips to avoid splinters.

“Come on,” said Liz. “Find the way out.”

Just as he heard her breathing speeding up again, Peter felt something cold and hard.

“Hang on,” he said. “This feels like a handle.” Peter pressed down on what felt like an iron latch and pushed his shoulder against the wood. In the next instant he was stumbling forward into warmth and blinding light as Liz pushed him through the door. For a moment Peter could see nothing and could hear only Liz crying and laughing simultaneously. Before his eyes had adjusted sufficiently for him to recognize his surroundings, he heard the voice of John Alderson.

“Ah, Mr. Byerly. How good of you to drop in. And I see you’ve brought a friend.”

Peter did not realize he had been tensing his muscles for the past hour, but he felt a wave of relaxation wash over him as Alderson invited him to have a seat and then helped Liz to a spot by the fire. She was still shaking, but she looked up at Peter and smiled and he knew she would recover. He had not voiced to her his fear that if the passageway did lead to Evenlode Manor, they would be met by Julia Alderson brandishing her lover’s shotgun. To be met, instead, by her brother’s kindness was relief indeed.

“You look as if you’ve had a harrowing evening,” said John. Peter realized he was covered in mud and scratches. The pain from his twisted ankle, forgotten in the intensity of the underground trek, now surged back.

“It’s a tunnel,” said Peter. “A tunnel all the way to the Gardner family chapel.”

“Extraordinary,” said John.

“My friend here is a bit claustrophobic,” said Peter. “And we were in there quite some time.”

“I’d heard of such a passage,” said John. “My grandfather used to tell tales about secret commerce between the Aldersons and the Gardners—cooperation going on underground while the feud raged above. I never believed it until Thomas Gardner showed up drunk in my library one night.”

“Then you knew?” said Peter.

“Oh yes,” said John, “though I never had the courage to take the trip myself. Like your friend, I’m not fond of tight spots.” He closed the door to the passage, which disappeared seamlessly into the paneling, and handed Peter his satchel. “Mr. Gardner used the tunnel on several occasions, though he never found what I’d hoped he would in his family crypt.”