The Death Chamber (45 page)

The tunnel widened slightly, and Jude felt a faint brush of cooler air ahead of him – a door? A window? Worth trying to get a signal again? He was just reaching for the phone when he heard
the sound he had hoped not to hear. The shudder of metal and timber as the trap was opened again. That could only mean one thing: the man was about to spring down into the vault and come after
him.

Jude’s every instinct screamed at him to whip round and confront whoever this was, and the familiar frustration tore through him again.
I can’t see!

He plunged on as quickly as he dared, feeling for Chad’s number on the phone’s keypad at the same time. Please let it ring out – please . . . but it was still dead.

The prowler was coming quietly, but Jude could hear him. He could sense the man approaching. He could not imagine what he wanted – he supposed he was a druggie high on something. But if he
pounced, Jude would put up as good a fight as he could. He gripped the walking stick gratefully, and it was then that the cooler air seemed more definite and the stick made out the shape of a
doorway and of a half-open door.

Then I really am out of the tunnel thought Jude, and moved forward again, trying to fix the position of the doorway on his mental map, keeping to a left-hand wall. After a few feet he
encountered what seemed to be a deep old stone sink. Was it? Yes, his hands identified old-fashioned taps and pipes. Then surely this was far enough above ground to pick up a phone signal. Would
there be time to reach Chad before the madman in the tunnel made a move? Even if he did not manage to speak, surely if Chad saw a call registering from Jude’s number he would respond.

He was just reaching into his pocket for the phone when there was a rush of movement from within the tunnel, and he knew the person who had stalked the darkness was standing in front of him.

Vincent thought the plan was unrolling beautifully. It was not unrolling precisely as he had thought it would, but as long as he stopped the television people’s
activities and Georgina’s delvings – and did not get caught in the process – the sequence of events did not matter.

It gave him a savage satisfaction to raise the trapdoor and shut the dark-haired man in. Vincent sensed his sudden panic. The next bit was interesting, because he wanted the man to find his way
through the old mortuary tunnel, and come out into the burial yard. Would he do that? Vincent knelt on the edge of the trap, listening, hearing the tapping of the man’s stick. Yes, he had
worked out that there would have to be another way out, and he was trying to find it. Ah, there he went now! Good! Vincent waited until he judged the man had got to the far end, to where the tunnel
opened onto the mortuary, then raised the trap again, and sprang down into the vault. He switched on his torch, and padded very quietly along after his prey.

The man had reached the mortuary, exactly as he had hoped. Vincent waited, standing just inside the tunnel, wanting the man to move forward a little more so he could step out. His idea was to
unbolt the outer door, and get the man into the burial yard. He hoped not to have to use violence, because he wanted everything to look like a genuine accident, but he would do so if necessary.
Seen at closer quarters, the man was a little older than he had seemed in the King’s Head: perhaps thirty-six or thirty-eight. When he half turned his head, as if listening for sounds from
within the tunnel, Vincent saw he was not wearing dark glasses. Even in the dimness it was possible to see he had remarkably vivid blue eyes. Vincent found it disconcerting, because for a moment,
he had thought the man could see him. Could he? Was this some kind of elaborate trick? No, it was all right, but he knew Vincent was there, Vincent could tell.

He was moving forward again, going in the direction of the door. Perhaps he could feel cooler air coming in from it. He had stopped, though – why had he done that?

Ah, of course! He had reached into his pocket and was holding a mobile phone. He was going to call for help, probably from Dr Ingram. So, violence it would have to be. Vincent sprang forward and
before the man could react or put up any kind of defence, he had knocked the phone from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor into a dusty corner.

Among the preparations he had made before leaving his house was the fashioning of a makeshift cosh. This had been easy; he had filled an old sock with soft dry soil from the end of his garden.
Plainly he would have to knock the man out before he could move to the next stage of his plan. He swung the cosh and brought it down on the man’s head. He fell to his knees, then crumpled
forward and lay still. Vincent bent over to make sure he was genuinely unconscious – yes, he was. Very good. The weapon wouldn’t be found – the soil could be tipped away and the
sock burned.

He unbolted the outer door of the mortuary – this was the only door that was bolted from inside – and propped it open. Cool night air filtered in, and he could see the shadowy mounds
of the graves beyond.

Now for the strenuous part. Vincent considered his victim, seeing he was quite slimly built but that it was the slimness of whipcord strength rather than weakness. In the end, he simply grasped
the edges of the man’s coat and dragged him down to the burial yard outside. It was quite difficult but not as difficult as he had feared, although he had to pause a couple of times, and when
he reached the lime store he was puffing like a grampus. He would have to watch that, it would not do to become out of condition. People would notice; they would say he was getting flabby.

He propped the man against the side of the row of outbuildings. Once he got him inside the lime store and wedged the door firmly closed, he would return for Georgina. His mind flew ahead, seeing
how he would unlock the door to the execution suite, and how she would come out at once, and how he would be waiting for her. He would have to remain well hidden, of course, because if anything
went wrong she must not be able to identify him afterwards. But it ought to be possible to knock her out in the darkness, and get her into the lime store as well. And then . . .

And then he would cover the drain with the supermarket carrier bag folded in his pocket and weight it in place with a stone. After he had done that he would knock away the rusting tap from the
rainwater butt and flood the courtyard.

Tomorrow, when the news got round, people would be shocked to hear that someone of Dr Ingram’s standing – actually C. R. Ingram who did all those television programmes and wrote all
those books – had been so irresponsible. That he had allowed a blind man the run of Calvary, and that the man had blundered into the lime store along with Georgina Grey, and that both of them
had been trapped in there, and . . .

And died? That remained to be seen, but when Vincent remembered how the small pieces of lime had reacted to water, he smiled.

He had brought the oilskin rain hat in his pocket, the thick gardening gloves and glasses, because whatever happened to these people, he was not risking any damage to himself, not he! He put
these on, and then carefully opened the door. As it swung open the powdery lime, disturbed by the movement, stirred slightly. For a moment, against the blackness of the store’s interior it
seemed to writhe upwards into the blurred, shifting outline of a man – a man who was trying to hold out his arms but could not because his arms ended in stumps from where the quicklime had
eaten his hands away.

‘But it’s only what a murderer deserves.’

Vincent shook his head to clear this macabre image and to dispel the odd little whisper in his mind. It was not at all like him to have these fantasies and he was perfectly accustomed to
Calvary’s atmosphere. The circumstances were bizarre, of course, so perhaps he was entitled to an attack of nerves.

He bent down to hook his hands under his victim’s arms, and began to drag him inside.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

September 1939

Walter Kane thought he could say with truth that he liked most people. He could usually find something to admire or enjoy or appreciate in everyone he met.

But he could not find anything to admire or enjoy or appreciate in Denzil McNulty. He had met him a couple of times because McNulty had acted as locum at Calvary when Walter was away. He had not
been away much at all since coming here, but he had taken a short holiday the previous spring, and he had had one or two long weekends in London. He always returned with pleased anticipation of the
work ahead and the men in his care.

He supposed McNulty was a good doctor, but he could not find any humanity or humour in the man. He certainly could not find any on the morning after Elizabeth Molland vanished from the dark road
between Thornbeck and Kendal, when McNulty came up to Calvary and requested to see Walter as soon as convenient.

Walter, thinking there might be a medical matter on which McNulty wanted to consult him, or even that McNulty was trying to lure him into the Caradoc Society’s various activities, saw him
at once.

‘I should perhaps apologize for coming in when everything’s in such turmoil,’ said McNulty, taking the seat Walter indicated. ‘A very shocking thing, this business with
Elizabeth Molland.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It must be a great relief to you to know that at least she didn’t have acute appendicitis.’

Walter had the sensation of something suddenly squeezing around his ribcage, but he said, ‘That was not a definite diagnosis. But she was presenting with enough of the symptoms to make it
imperative to have it investigated. It was a difficult situation but—’

Denzil McNulty said, ‘But a patient with acute appendicitis could hardly have walked out of an ambulance and got into a car on the road between Thornbeck and Kendal almost unaided, could
she, Dr Kane?’

‘I think,’ said Walter carefully, ‘that you’re under some kind of misapprehension, Dr McNulty. Or someone has been spreading spiteful lies.’ Saul Ketch, he thought.
I knew he was a sly greedy one, out to make trouble! ‘The crash knocked me out for several minutes. I have absolutely no idea what happened or how she got away.’

He stood up, hoping McNulty would take this as dismissal but McNulty did not. He said, ‘I’m not misinformed and I don’t think there have been any lies. I don’t think you
were knocked out at all.’ He leaned forward. ‘Dr Kane, let us not play these games. Somebody gave Elizabeth Molland some kind of emetic, and that somebody coached her in the symptoms of
appendicitis. Probably it was a hefty measure of mustard in warm water – easily done without anyone noticing it. Especially if you happen to be the prison doctor. Or,’ he said very
softly, ‘a distinguished visitor.’

Again, Walter experienced the sudden tight panic around his chest. Lewis. But he said, ‘If you’re thinking I arranged an escape for her—’

‘I don’t think you actually arranged it,’ said McNulty. ‘But I think you let someone else take advantage of the situation – perhaps you even guessed the situation
was false.’

Walter said furiously, ‘You’ll take that back, McNulty.’

‘Listen, I don’t care who it was who fed the girl an emetic, but I do think the two of you were in it together.’ He broke off and then said, ‘You and Elizabeth’s
father.’

‘That’s nonsense. I’ve met Molland and he’s the last person—’

‘I’m talking about her real father, Dr Kane. Lewis Caradoc.’ As Walter stared at him, he said, ‘Did you really think I didn’t know? I always knew what went on
inside this prison, Walter. To a great extent, I still know. People tell me things. Useful things. Twenty-odd years ago Lewis Caradoc fathered a child onto that slut Belinda Skelton, and it was
Caradoc who was the grey eminence behind Elizabeth’s disappearance last night. He arranged for her to be spirited away, and he did it so well she hasn’t been found’. He waited,
but when Walter did not reply, said, ‘And so, having laid our cards on the table, I think it’s time to be open. I think we can be of use to one another, Dr Kane. Because for the sake of
you and Lewis Caradoc, I think you’ll want me to keep very quiet about all this.’

‘I did nothing,’ said Walter angrily.

‘Let’s hope the General Medical Council come to the same conclusion.’

‘If you have some mad idea of blackmail,’ said Walter, ‘you can go to hell. Even if I were likely to submit to that, I haven’t any money. I’m a bad choice for
blackmail, McNulty.’ But Lewis isn’t.

‘It isn’t money I want,’ said McNulty, and quite suddenly he seemed to change. Walter stared at him and saw the thin figure become sly. He did not precisely hunch his bony
shoulders, but the impression of someone hugging a secret to his chest was strongly there.

‘What then?’

‘I want,’ said McNulty, ‘to conduct an experiment in the execution chamber. I’ve tried it before and it went wrong. That was in Lewis Caradoc’s day.’ He
paused briefly and Walter, still trying to sort out the confusion in his mind, saw a spasm cross McNulty’s face and saw that Denzil McNulty hated Sir Lewis. ‘I’ve been waiting
twenty years for another opportunity,’ said McNulty. ‘I’m a very patient man, you see, Dr Kane.’