“That is what the Chief Inspector would expect,” he replied.
Thirteen
It wasimportant to remember that I was with someone who had made a career of eluding the police along with Brodie as we slipped out the back of the manor.
There were no lamp posts or torches to light the way, only the hint of a moon and the faint crunch of our boot steps as I followed Munro to the green, following along the track my aunt had used earlier with her motor carriage.
We then passed the stables, with a faint nickering sound from the horses within, then beyond to the line of the forest I had explored countless afternoons as a child.
Munro switched on a hand-held light and guided the way through the twist and snarl of old trees and undergrowth that might have tangled around our ankles as we moved deeper through the wood.
As a branch scraped my cheek, I was thankful that I had changed into the trousers and jacket Templeton had provided.
I had ventured into the forest as a child but never this far, often returning from my adventures covered with mud, burrs, and scratches from brambles. However, it did seem that Munro knew precisely where he was going.
That ancient stone wall that surrounded the wood and the manor suddenly loomed up in front of us in the beam of the hand-held.
I had heard the stories about the manor and that ancient wall from my great-aunt. The original stone fortress had been built by none other than the Conqueror as a place to get away from the main fortress that became the Tower of London. Here, he could undoubtedly consort with all sorts, hunt, undoubtedly with debauchery included. The sort of things past kings had been known for.
The manor had been rebuilt with the original stones some centuries later by another ancestor. Yet, the wall that had been built to keep certain people out and others in, remained and provided those great adventures for me as a child.
It was impressive in height, well over ten feet, much taller here where the centuries had hidden it and others had not removed the top rows of stones over time, as they had done with the wall near the front gates.
The edges of the stones had been worn over time. There wasn’t a foot-hold to be found. There didn’t appear to be any way to climb up and then over it.
“Is there some other place?”
He shook his head and then moved low-hanging branches away from the wall to reveal a large iron ring embedded in a stone. He took hold of the iron ring and pulled. A portion of the wall slowly moved and then opened a gap in the wall.
“The smuggler’s gate,” he said, standing back from the portion of the wall that he had just opened.
I had heard stories from my aunt and had visions of swarthy adventurers in tricorn hats, brandishing flintlock pistols to anyone who might have discovered them, and could only wonder what those smugglers—no doubt an ancestor or two—might have taken through the gate.
Whisky perhaps?
“Where does this go?”
He said nothing, but stepped into that opening. I followed the beam of his light and stepped out onto what appeared to be a carriage path. Light from the sliver of a moon gleamed on an expanse of green on the other side of the path.
I had seen an old map that my aunt’s father had made that included Sussex Square and a handful of estates that surrounded it in this part of London. Unless I was mistaken, the carriage path lay between the boundaries of Sussex Square and the estate of the Earl of Rossmore.
From past holiday events, I remembered the present Earl of Rossmore as a craggy old fool with bad teeth, who once thought to combine the two estates through marriage to my great-aunt. She was the one who called him a fool.
“As if I had need of someone who merely wanted the family fortune,”she once said. “And the old fool has bad teeth. Nevertheless, I feel sorry for him at Christmas holiday. He has no family left. I believe they all fled in spite of his money. I wonder why?”
The Rossmore residence sat in darkened shadows, like an old woman. At the thought of those bad teeth, I shuddered, most appreciative that Brodie had excellent teeth.
“There doesna seem to be anyone about, and the roadway is just beyond,” Munro said in lowered voice. He then looked up at the sky and that crescent moon still quite low. “We should be able to find a cabman there.”
I nodded and we set off. It was obvious that he knew the way quite well.
The roadway led to the main thoroughfare that I had taken countless times to Sussex Square and then to the town house, and farther on to the office on the Strand.
We eventually were able to find a cabman.
“St. Giles,” Munro told him.
“That’s out of me way,” the driver replied.
