Dalton gave a curt nod, bracing himself.
“One,” Gabriel counted. “Two ... three.”
With a groan of effort and the grind of stone against stone, they heaved the lid sideways. It shifted an inch. Then another. One last push, and it slid free enough to reveal the hollow interior.
As Nesbit suggested, it was not some poor soul’s final resting place but a theatre’s prop basket—clothes, hats, rope, wooden staves. A few sacks of coins in denominations smaller than sovereigns.
Gabriel sighed. “Well, that sends my theory to the dogs. We’ll check the other, then return to the rectory and kick down the back door.”
The lid on the next tomb was lighter and easier to move. With a final shove, it shifted, dust rising in a thin plume. Inside lay a body bound in linen, the image more fitting for an Egyptian crypt than an English churchyard.
Gabriel stared down, unease creeping up the back of his neck.
The cloth was discoloured, but something caught his eye. The linen was darker in places, not just with age, but with the faint smudge of sooty fingerprints.
“Someone moved this body recently.” Gabriel reached in and tugged the edge of the linen. “Help me lift it out.”
Together, they moved the wrapped figure. It was so light, he doubted it was a body at all. Beneath it lay a coarse roll of hessian. Beneath that, wood, not stone.
“It’s a trapdoor,” Dalton whispered.
“Yes, secured by nothing but a latch.”
“You think it leads to a tunnel?”
“There’s only one way to know for sure.” Gabriel hesitated, meeting Dalton’s eye. He couldn’t lose another friend, not like this. “Wait here. Stand guard until Daventry arrives.”
Dalton caught his arm. “I’m coming with you.”
“You’ve a wife at home. She’d?—”
“Understand why we risk our lives for each other.”
Gabriel looked at the man who’d stood beside him for over a decade. It was easy to dwell on what was broken and forget what still held fast.
“You’ve been a loyal friend to me.”
Dalton gave a crooked smile. “And love’s made you sentimental. Now open the damn door so we can find your wife and be done with this.”
The tunnel was narrow and airless, swallowing all light the moment they descended. Damp clung to the walls, the scent of soil and decay thick in the dark.
They walked for a minute before spotting the glow, a lantern hanging from a hook on the stone wall. To their right, a row of studded iron doors.
All stood open but one.
“These are cells,” Dalton muttered.
But Gabriel’s heart was in his throat. He quickened his pace, checking each cell in turn, hope and fear waging warwithin him as he reached the end of the row. The final one. Closed. The key still lodged in the lock.
He daren’t call her name. He held his breath, turned the key and pushed the door slowly open.
A man sat slumped in the corner, face bloodied.
Justin Lovelace looked up.
Time stilled.
Memories surfaced. The last time they’d spoken. The laughter, the slap on the back, the lie that said everything was fine.
