They worked quickly to clear away the small stones, both realizing that they could be discovered at any time. When all had been moved away but one giant rock, they stopped, staring. The final obstacle was arather intimidating lump, but both she and Myrtle were stronger than most people expected of women. Rose had earned her muscles working on her automobiles, while Myrtle was accustomed to the physical labor of an archaeological dig.
“It’s going to take the two of us to move that one,” Rose said as she assumed a better position for lifting.
“Are you sure you won’t be overtaxing yourself?” Myrtle asked.
“It’s been months now since my illness. I still can’t bring a lit cig to my lips, but I can roll a pebble or two.” Rose gave the boulder a push and managed to wriggle it in the right direction.
“Easy now, Samson,” Myrtle said as she moved to assist. “No need to perform the feat all by yourself.”
“Since we’re opening a potential tomb, wouldn’t it make more sense to reference angels? As I recall, Samson brought the roof down on himself,” Rose grunted out.
It took Myrtle a moment to respond as they both struggled under the weight of the rock. When she did finally speak, her voice sounded more than a little strained. “Since neither of us is the least bit angelic, I decided to use the proverbial strongman.”
“Ah,” Rose breathed out, a little winded herself as they finished removing the huge stone. They were now staring down a flat passage, not even big enough to crawl through on hands and knees.
“I cannot believe that the crofters would exert all this effort just to light a fire to smoke fish.” Rose pushed her fingers into her hips, loosening some of the strain she felt there. She wished it would be so easy to relieve the pressure bearing down on her heart and the nervousness crowding her soul. She dreaded the shadowy passage and the dark answers it might hold. If the islanders were indeed involved in the spying, she would feel no triumph—just a burdensome sense of duty.
“Neither can I,” Myrtle agreed, her voice solemn, without a trace of her normal irony. Sinking to her haunches, she used her lantern to study the dirt at the beginning of the slim passage. “I see skid marks,like they’ve pulled a sort of sled through here. Someone has definitely been using this place recently.”
Rose knelt and looked as far as she could into the tunnel. It did not broaden inside. If anything, it grew even more narrow. The sight made her jumpier than one of the jackrabbits on Myrtle’s ancestral ranch, but Rose had never allowed anxiousness to stop her. “There is no sled now that I can see. We’ll have to crawl on our bellies.”
Myrtle stuck her head beside Rose’s. “Slither is more like it.”
“I’ll go first.” Rose flopped on her stomach and began to wiggle through the tight space. Since she could not hold Myrtle’s lantern in her hand while she moved, she had to push it ahead of her a foot or two, jiggle her body after it, and then repeat.
Unlike on Daytona Beach, if she encountered spies in this coffin-like space, there would be no running. Her breathing grew uneven, and she willed her thoughts away from capture. It was slow progress as she slipped deeper into the bowels of the prehistoric structure. The entire way was lined with stones, neatly arranged with almost haunting artistry. But Rose didn’t stop to admire the work of the ancients. Instead, she focused on the yards, one after another, leading her closer to answers she now dreaded.
Suddenly, the hellish squeeze opened into a surprisingly large vaulted space. The light from both her lantern on the ground and Myrtle’s in her hand illuminated the layers and layers of horizontal rocks shoring up the tunnellike chamber. Thin vertical flagstones were spaced evenly along the wall, reminding Rose of standing stones. They appeared too brittle and skinny to serve as true pillars. Instead, they seemed to be more for visual effect. Inside each of the sections were openings that looked a bit like hearths. At one end, Rose caught a glimpse of an additional passage. The view of the other was incongruously blocked by—
Giddy relief caused a bubble of mirth to rise up inside Rose, and she didn’t try to stop it from fizzing out into a chuckle. The people of Frest were keeping a secret indeed—but a delicious, not treasonous one.
“It’s astill!”
It all fell into place now—Mr.Sinclair’s conversation with the publican in the back alley, the abrupt changes in conversation, the need to mill more grain. Rose laughed again as she realized why Mr.Sinclair had been so intent on keeping her from climbing the ladder in the windmill. She would have known by the rollers that they weren’t just grinding grain into flour but crushing it for whiskey.
“Did you saystill?” Myrtle asked as her head popped out of the passage.
“Yep. A rather large one,” Rose said, handing her friend back her lantern. Rose untied her own from the twine she’d used to lower it and then lifted it to illuminate more of the copper behemoth stuffed into one end of the ancient structure. Light reflected off the shiny surface, giving the contraption with its rounded belly and thinner neck an almost jolly appearance.
“I’d say.” Myrtle’s chin moved up and down as she followed the twisty copper piping that led to a barrel.
“This must be the source of the whiskey I had at Widow Flett’s cottage.” Feeling lighter than she had in years, Rose walked forward and tapped on one of the sealed wooden casks lining the stone-hewed walls. “I can’t believe moonshine tastes so good.”
“This looks a lot more sophisticated than your average illicit still.” Myrtle swept the light of her own lantern around the inner sanctum of the tomb.
“No wonder Mr.Sinclair didn’t want me sniffing around Fornhowe. It’s the perfect hiding place, especially with the drying shed to explain away the smoke.”
“I wouldn’t sayperfect.” Myrtle clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Who knows what archaeological treasures are hidden in here that the soot could be damaging!”
Rose stood on tiptoe and peered into one of the hearth-like openings in the wall. Her light flickered over something that looked like wood at first. Bringing the lantern up higher, she sucked in her breath.
“Is that ...?”
“A pile of bones?” Myrtle asked matter-of-factly. “Yes. Human femurs by the look of them.”
“Just femurs?” Rose inquired as a cold sensation slithered over her skin. She’d seen exposed human bone before—in the living and in the dead. But still, a collection of a single type of them unnerved her. Perhaps she had been too hasty in exonerating the crofters.
“Most likely. It is not uncommon for body parts to be organized by type in these old cairn tombs.”
