“No, indeed,” they cried in unison.
“If Beth comes,” Eva explained—he had always been able to tell the twins apart, sometimes to their chagrin—“then she will surelywiltfrom climbing down that steep path and simplyhaveto lean upon Viscount Marwood’s arm or Mr. Welby’s, and either Alma or I will be stuck walking withCyril.”
“To be fair,” he said, grinning, “that would probably be as much of a trial for your brother as it would for you.”
They both pulled identical faces at him and hurried off in the direction of the cliff path before he could try insisting that they include their sister in the party.
Percy made his way back to the house. He found Crutchley appropriately enough in the butler’s pantry, wearing a large apron and cleaning an ornate pair of silver candlesticks that usually lived on the mantelpiece in the dining room.
“I am going to take a look around the cellar,” Percy told him, and received rather a sharp look in return. “It is the only part of the house I have not seen.”
“There is nothing much down there, my lord,” the butler said, “apart from cobwebs and wine.”
“Perhaps,” Percy said, “either you or Mrs. Attlee could give the order to remove the webs sometime, Crutchley, and the spiders that go with them. In the meanwhile, I shall descend to the bowels of the earth anyway, since I am not afraid of spiders—or wine. You may accompany me if you wish, though it is not necessary to abandon your important task here. I shall take a candle with me and hope it does not shiver out and leave me stranded in the sort of darkness I experienced in my room the night after you had those heavy curtains erected across my window.”
Crutchley came with him.
There was actually considerably more down there than just wine—all the usual paraphernalia one expects to discover either in the cellar or in the attic of any house, in fact. And, interestingly enough, not a single cobweb as far as Percy could see. A door at one side, shut and locked, opened into the wine cellar, which was adequately though not overabundantly stocked. A door on the other side, also shut and locked, opened into...
Well, actually it did not open at all. Crutchley searched his ring of keys, grunted, and remembered that that particular key had been missing for a while and he did not know what had happened to it. It did not really matter, though. Nothing was ever kept in there.
“Ah,” Percy said. “I daresay that is why there is a door, then, with a lock. One can never be too careful about empty spaces. The emptiness might escape and do untold damage.”
The butler squinted at him and looked uncomprehending.
“If the door—and the lock—serve no purpose,” Percy continued, “then we will just have the door chopped down and open up more space for storage. There is some considerable space in there, I would guess. The cellar extends beneath the whole house?”
“I believe so, my lord,” the butler said. “I have never thought about it. I do not remember that room as being very large, though. And it is damp. That was why the old earl had it walled up and the door added—to keep the damp out.”
Percy looked back at the door into the wine cellar. It was out of the range of the light from his candle, however, and he was forced to walk back. And yes, he could see now that this door and the wall in which it was set were considerably more ancient than those that led into the empty, damp room.
“I daresay, then,” he said, “it would be as well to leave the door in place and forget about the lost key.”
“Yes, my lord,” the butler agreed.
Percy left the house by the front door and turned to walk about to the back. There were back doors, he knew, leading out to the kitchen gardens and other areas most frequented by the servants. There was also a servants’ entrance at the side of the house closest to the stables—the same side of the house as the wine cellar. Percy had seen that before. Now he went to look at the other side. And sure enough, there was a door there too, one that was closed and securely locked—no surprise there. It also looked neglected, as though it had not been used in years. There was no path leading to it and no evidence of its having been approached by any large number of feet recently. On closer inspection, though, there was perhaps some sign of new sod having been set down for several feet stretching from the door. He could see the faint mark of straight lines in the grass dividing the pieces.
Damn it all, he thought, the old earl, his predecessor, had shut up the cellar at the dower house so smugglers couldn’t use it. But had they replaced it with a good chunk of the cellar at the hall? If Percy was not mistaken, those pieces of sod were of a more recent date than two years ago, when the old earl had died.
There must have been general dismay when he turned up here a couple of weeks ago. A valiant effort had been made to move him at least to the back of the hall, where he was less likely to see a band of smugglers hauling their goods up to the house one dark and stormy night. And, that plan having met with defeat, a desperate attempt had been made to see to it that no light of outside activity could possibly penetrate the darkness of his bedchamber.
Did this mean that Crutchley was involved? And who else among the servants?Allof them?
Damn it all to hell. He was going to have to either turn a blind eye—that phrase again—ordosomething about the situation.
The habit of a lifetime was to turn a blind eye, preferably two. It seemed to be a habit with his neighbors too, whether they benefited from the trade or not.
What did it matter to him if people in these parts liked their brandy and other luxury goods, and if someone—probably literally someone—was exploiting and terrorizing the locals,including, perhaps, his own servants, and getting very rich from the trade? And breaking the legs of a mere lad who had probably found the mad courage to voice an objection because his hero, Lord Barclay, had spoken out before going off to war.
Who was that someone? Anyone he knew?
He hoped not.
And of course it mattered. Dash it all, it mattered. And here he was. Decision time. Was he going to continue floating along in life, seeking out pleasure and avoiding pain, as he had done for at least the last ten years? Or was he going to wade in like a damned crusader and martyr, stirring hornets’ nests and upsetting apple carts, disturbing the peace of the neighborhood and everyone in it, and all for what? So that everyone could drink inferior brandy? Or so thathecould gethislegs broken?
He considered his options rather grimly.
Forever after on his birthdays, he was not only going to sit alone before his own fire, wrapped in a shawl, a nightcap on his head, slippers on his feet, drinking tea laced with milk. He was also going to take up knitting. Whythe devilhad he decided to come here?
