If the door had been more ancient, I might have been able to kick my way through any rotten boards. However, it felt solid and fairly new, meaning whoever maintained the comtesse’s house had recently installed it, probably with iron fixings made by the Deveres.
Leaving the door, I groped my way along the wall beside it, going slowly and carefully. I did not want to tear my hand on a protruding nail or piece of wood and give myself a festering wound.
The wall extended from the door only about five feet. I hit a corner and turned it, encountering a tall set of standing shelves a few feet from there.
I eagerly examined these, hoping to find tools of some kind with which I could pry open the door. To my disappointment, the shelves were mostly empty. I did come across an open wooden box of what felt like rags inside, perhaps ones shoved in here and forgotten sometime in the past, but nothing more.
The wall ended not far beyond the shelves and turned again. The stones became round and smooth here, contrasting the regular bricks of the other walls. I imagined this was part of the original chateau, constructed hundreds of years ago, the brick walls later installed to divide the space into smaller rooms.
While fascinating from an architectural point of view, it was not very helpful to me at the moment. Behind these old stones was probably the hill itself, the masonry propping the cellars against the dirt beyond.
My only hope of escape, it seemed, was through the door.
I discovered a much smaller set of shelves on the old wall, this one more like a compact bookcase. On that, I found bottles. Dust puffed when I slid my hand across the glass, making me sneeze.
I removed a glove and lifted one of the bottles. It was heavy and sloshed with liquid.
I’d once used grease and flame to set fire to a door behind which I’d been trapped, but I did not want to attempt that here. The smoke would quickly fill this little space and overwhelm me.
Also, as I’d observed before, I had no way to strike a spark. An oversight I would correct, if I ever gained my freedom.
I found a cork jammed tightly into the top of the bottle. That, at least, I could deal with.
I removed the small knife I carried in my pocket. Its blade was too short and delicate to help me much with the door, but it could pry a cork from a bottle.
I worked carefully, in case I unleashed a vitriolic substance, but as soon as the cork moved, I smiled.
The odor assaulting me came not from a dangerous oil or other corrosive substance, but from the warm sweetness of wine.
Had a servant hidden the bottles for himself, meaning to fetch them another time? Or had this been a storage room for drink, this cache somehow missed when the rest of the room had been emptied?
Whatever the case, I’d broached the bottle, and it would be a shame to waste what was inside. I upended the flask and tipped the liquid into my dry mouth.
The freshness of grapes picked early in the season assailed me, the wine light, airy, and crisp. It was perhaps not the aged, mellow substance that Grenville would prefer, but it danced on my palate and nicely eased my worries.
Holding the bottle in one hand, I finished my exploration of my cell. The brick wall beyond to the wine shelf was empty, and then it turned a corner, and I was back at the door.
I leaned against the wood and took another gulp of wine. My first panic assuaged, I now pondered my situation.
Michel had most likely followed me here, perhaps vowing to keep an eye on me until I departed for England. I’d asked Emile not to speak to the family about my speculations on Potier, but he’d found a confidante in Michel previously, and possibly had again.
How, though, had Michel gained entrance to the chateau? He’d been lurking behind the door in the gallery, lying in wait to pull me through. He might have found his way up through the tunnels, but from Brewster’s report, the entire place was not only a labyrinth but well guarded.
Of course, Michel could be a frequent visitor to the chateau, delivering goods for the Deveres, who likely had provided the ironworks for this very stout door. In that case, the guards would know Michel and have no worry about admitting him. The comtesse and her family must have a long association with the Deveres, perhaps one stretching back decades.
Ideas clicked together in my head, aided by this excellent wine.
Easing my fears and was only one reason I’d opened the bottle. I took another sip, savoring, then I bent down and poured the rest of the liquid out through the crack beneath the door.
Brewster might already by hunting me. If he found a puddle of wine outside one of the doors in the cellar, he’d insist on investigating the room behind it. My action would narrow down his search and save him some time.
Now to wait.
My leg ached, the cold not helping. I limped back to the wine shelf and took up a second bottle. I slid down the wall until I rested on the floor and pried out the cork.
This bottle, I used to warm myself and ease the pain in my leg.
Again, I found a refreshing, cool wine, which held the faint taste of apples. I breathed in autumn air, the scents of harvest, a cooling wind across sun-dappled vineyards.
