They’d left the metal detector on a low wall. Broken stones lay on top of a black earth mound, Fogg had caught the excitement and was frantically digging his own hole nearby.
‘There was a building here once, it’s just rubble now.’ Persi pointed a torch to shine a beam down at a hole in the ground. ‘But look what we found.’
It was knee deep, Swift was busy brushing soil aside with his hands. ‘We had a really strong signal here….’ He felt carefully with long fingers, then suddenly lifted something free of the dirt.
‘What is it?’ I was leaning shoulder to shoulder with Persi.
He moved aside to let us see. ‘It’s iron, it could be a handle.’
‘Is it attached to anything?’ Persi reached a hand down to grasp the metal. It was caked with clinging soil and rust.
‘Yes.’ Swift made to scramble out of the hole. ‘But, we need to be careful not to break the fastening.’
Persi took over, reverting to her role as forensic archaeologist. She pulled a magnifying glass from her jacket pocket and examined the loop. She rubbed dirt away with a thumb, then let the iron handle down carefully and wiped the soil from the boss holding it in place. ‘It’s early medieval in style. It could have been made when the castle was first built.’
‘What’s it attached to?’ I asked.
‘Stone, it’s a trapdoor,’ she called back, still engrossed with brushing earth from around the iron boss.
‘Can we lift it?’ Images of treasure and the lost tomb of the chatelaine rose in my mind.
‘If you can find a rope, I think I can clear the edges enough to try,’ Persi told me.
‘Right.’ I was off like a shot. I ran back to the boathouse, grabbed the nearest line and raced back again. Foggy came with me, barking as we went, thinking it all marvellous fun. I handed the rope to Persi, who’d cleared out the sides of the hole.
‘The metal looks strong enough to take the strain.’ She tied it expertly around the hoop and passed it to Swift.
‘We’ll need to use the spade as leverage,’ he told me.
I didn’t argue, just grabbed it. I could feel it slip into a gap between the trapdoor and its surround. The slab of stone was visible now, it was rectangular in shape, about two feet by three and roughly hewn, as though hacked rather than saw cut. The metal hoop was fixed in about two-thirds of the way up, held by a thick cast iron pin driven through the stone.
I gave Persi my hand to help her up to ground level. She was laughing, back in her element and evidently enjoying herself.
‘We need a strong, steady pull,’ she told Swift.
They both took the rope and I pried the spade back. Nothing happened. They tugged, I pushed the spade, then the stone shifted a fraction.
Swift started shouting. ‘When I say heave, we all heave.’
I shoved the spade deeper.
‘Heave,’ Swift ordered. ‘Heave.’
The stone lifted, a smell rose from the ground, damp and very old, with the tang of decay.
‘Pull it right out.’ Swift was still in command. I let the spade fall and went to haul on the rope. We levered the stone upright and then back, to let it fall over the mound of soil until it was entirely free of the opening.
We paused, breathless, then moved to peer down into the blackness below.
Chapter 22
There were steps. They looked to be almost unused, with no sign of wear.
‘Man made,’ Swift stated as he aimed his torch downwards.
‘Obviously.’ I was following the beam of light. The walls were green and black with mould, the opening only shoulder wide. The bottom was lost in darkness.
‘I’ll go first.’ Persi was already lowering herself inside.
‘No.’ I put my hand on her shoulder.
‘I’ve been in far worse places,’ she reminded me.
I recalled Damascus, and the snakes and scorpions, which hadn’t bothered her a jot. ‘I know, but I don’t want any harm to come to you.’
She laughed and went down the steps, her own torch lighting the way. I followed, Swift was right behind me.
‘Don’t forget this is a police investigation,’ he called out, I’ve no idea why.
The steps went down around fifteen feet. At the bottom, the solid rock gave way to roughly built stone walls. It seems they’d cut through the layer of rock then tunnelled below ground. I wondered how close to the lake we were and was surprised it hadn’t poured in.
‘The floor is slippery, take care,’ Persi called back to us.
She was right. My boot slid as I trod from the bottom step onto the flat surface. We caught up with her as she paused in what looked like a small chamber with a cave-like ceiling. My hair brushed the wet stones, moisture dripped onto my head and sent trickles of icy water down the back of my neck.
‘Which way?’ She shone her torch down one passageway and then another.
‘The one on the left must go under the great hall,’ I said, judging by the direction.
‘We’ll take that one,’ Swift decided and led the way.
It didn’t go very far, more or less to the far side of the building.
Persi shone her torch upwards into a vertical shaft, almost twenty feet in height. It was made of dressed stone, round, like a well. ‘It’s under the fireplace.’
‘An emergency escape route,’ I recalled the sticks and debris in the hearth. ‘Would it be visible?’
‘It’s unlikely, these things were disguised.’ She ran a hand over the mould-blackened wall. ‘I think there may have been a wooden ladder attached to the stones.’
‘Wouldn’t there be a route out, under the walls?’ I asked.
‘The castle was surrounded by a moat, Lennox,’ she replied dryly.
‘Ah… yes.’ My mind had been on Lady Rosamond and her flight from the murderous King John. ‘If Lady Rosamond did hide down here, she would have been trapped when the castle was burned.’
‘Yes,’ Persi agreed. ‘The roof would have collapsed; the fallen joists and slates would have made it impossible to open either of the trapdoors.’
‘And everyone was killed, so no-one came to lift the debris away.’ Swift was sombre.
‘She’s still here somewhere, isn’t she.’ I turned and headed back to the junction.
We took the unexplored tunnel out of the chamber. It dropped down a step and the ceiling lowered with it.
‘Damn,’ I cursed as I banged my head on a jutting stone.
‘Lennox, time is passing.’ Swift lacked sympathy.
‘Yes, Swift, I know,’ I retorted and carried on. The tunnel went steadily down, and I’d expected to find catacombs or caves or some such when we rounded a bend.
‘These are going up.’ I hesitated, we’d arrived at another set of stone steps. ‘Have we missed something?’
‘There weren’t any other openings,’ Persi said from behind me.
I started the ascent. The steps were made from smoothed stones, confined within a narrow passageway, the walls curved in a wide spiral as we went up. I stopped all of a sudden as realisation hit.
‘We’re within the walls of the tower.’
‘What?’ Swift shouted.
‘This is the Lady Chapel, I’m sure of it. Think about the direction.’
‘You’re right.’ Persi sounded delighted.
‘And no-one knew about it?’ Swift was astonished.
‘No, of course not,’ Persi replied bluntly. ‘The tower wall is at least eight feet thick, the stairs were built inside. It’s the perfect hiding place. No-one could have imagined it was here.’
I’d carried on, taking the steps two at a time. I reached the top and stopped.
‘What is it?’ Swift came in behind Persi.
We’d arrived in a circular chamber, I ran my torch about, the ceiling was barely high enough for me to stand upright. The floor was laid with simple terracotta tiles in a concentric pattern, the encircling wall held four niches. Each niche was rectangular with an arched top, framed
with red sandstone, as a window would be. A stylised dragon was carved into each keystone, and more decorations were visible in the framework. The openings were obscured with rotted tapestries, dank and dark, reduced to grey shadows of whatever glory they once possessed.
‘It’s a hidden chamber,’ Persi said. ‘It’s ingenious, nobody ever guessed it was here.’
‘The guard room is above,’ I replied.
‘And the Lady Chapel below,’ Swift added.
‘The entrances are at different levels,’ Persi continued. ‘The door to the Lady Chapel is on the ground floor, but the guard room can only be accessed from the battlements.’ She laughed. ‘It’s so simple…’
‘The trompe l’oeil on the ceiling of the Lady Chapel must have helped in the deception,’ I mused.
‘Yes, and it’s up so high, it’s impossible to even tell it’s flat without a ladder and a modern light.’ Persi was enthralled.
Swift was more interested in the niches. He used his torch to lift the tapestry away from the nearest one to him. It shed mildewed threads as he pushed it carefully aside, but remained relatively intact. It revealed a recess, the length of a bed and about a yard and a half high. It had been carefully constructed of red stone, vacant except for blackened debris on the flat base.
‘Straw,’ Persi observed. ‘Rotted away.’
‘How far does the alcove extend?’ I asked, leaning close to her for a better look.
‘About four feet.’ She aimed her torch at the interior. ‘Half the depth of the wall.’
‘And the steps stopped at this level,’ I mused, realising the whole tower had been designed around this chamber and its four stone alcoves.
Swift had moved to the next opening. ‘Look,’ he said quietly.
We crossed the floor to join him.
‘Is it her?’ I asked in a whisper.
The form was covered with a sheet so fine it was almost transparent. The unmistakable shape of a skeletal body could be made out below the fabric.
Persi leaned over and carefully raised the shroud back from the head. Blonde hair, thickly plaited, was stuck to the skull, which I hadn’t expected. I reached a hand to stroke the lightest caress across a plait but it disintegrated into a thousand motes of dust under my touch. My heart suddenly lurched and I felt horror creep under my skin.
‘Don’t touch,’ Persi told me. She continued to lift the sheet.
Lady Rosamond was reduced to bone, her jaw fallen open, small pretty teeth smiling as only the dead can. The neck had mostly crumbled, the shoulders collapsed like piles of thin sticks.
‘An injury.’ Persi aimed her beam on the top section of rib cage. ‘She was stabbed. It would have caused internal bleeding, probably into her lungs.’
‘Lady Penelope said she fought with the King,’ I murmured, oddly distressed by the thought.
Swift aimed his magnifying glass and muttered something under his breath. Despite the toughened exterior, I knew he was a Galahad at heart, always trying to come to the rescue of the weak and defenceless.
‘Has the sheet been lifted since she died?’ I asked.
‘I think so.’ Persi replied. ‘It’s coming away easily, and there are shreds of skin and old cloth stuck to the fabric. I’d say someone found her before us. Should I stop?’
‘No, carry on,’ Swift told her.
We waited with bated breath as she slowly peeled back the sheet. She suddenly stopped when she reached the chest and we all let out a gasp. The fine bones of the fingers were pushed aside, an indent had formed on her breastbone, the clearly defined shape of a heavy cross lay in faded fabric on her chest.
‘They took it from her grasp,’ Persi uttered.
‘The gold cross,’ I stated.
‘Thieves,’ Swift growled.
‘Her hands must have rested across it.’ Persi spoke softly. ‘The weight of the cross preserved the fabric of her dress.’
Swift was angry. He paced over to the other alcove and moved the ragged tapestry aside. ‘There’s another body.’
‘What?’
We joined him in two quick strides.
‘It’s a woman, probably her maid.’ Persi observed the skeleton. ‘She must have outlived her mistress, poor soul.’
The remains were curled up, one fleshless hand outstretched, the other tucked under the skull. Her frail form was without a protective cover and her hair and fabric had decayed to nothing. The bones had collapsed onto the bare stone. She looked somehow tragic and very small.
‘She must have laid her mistress out.’ Swift was subdued.
‘And died here, alone in the dark,’ Persi said.
‘God bless,’ I murmured and sent a silent prayer to the man upstairs, because she must have died a slow death from starvation and despair.
Swift went to the remaining niche and lifted the curtain, then pulled it down with a sharp tug. ‘Here,’ he called, his voice too loud.
I strode over.
‘Is it him?’ Persi came to stand at my side, I put my arm around her shoulder.
Swift shone his torch on the decayed corpse lying in the alcove. ‘I’d say so.’
It seems we’d found the earthly remains of Randolph St George.
Swift took over, professional, calm and thorough. He observed the body, the skin shrivelled from the face, exposed teeth gleaming white, hair falling away. Persi held the torch while he made the examination.
The clothes were old fashioned by today’s standards. A thick woollen jacket in Victorian style, moleskin trousers, a flannel shirt, tweed tie, knitted cream socks, hobnail boots. Practical, unadorned gear worn for travelling.
‘Was he shot?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Swift sounded distracted. ‘Did you expect him to be?’
Yes… no.’ I had actually. I went to perch on the edge of the only vacant alcove, depressed by the find, although I knew I was being ridiculous.
‘There’s a crack just below the eye socket,’ Persi stated.
‘And the back of his skull is smashed. Perhaps Sinclair knocked him down then hit him with something heavy.’
‘The cross?’ Persi suggested. She was watching Swift closely as he carefully turned the cadaver over.
‘It’s possible, the wound indicates a sharp object,’ Swift replied, his voice muffled as he leaned forward. He straightened up, his face grim. ‘He stole it.’
‘Penelope said his hair colour was the same as mine,’ I told them.
‘It’s similar,’ Persi replied.
‘We need more than that for an identification.’ Swift was still in professional mode. He began searching the clothes.
‘There’s a watch, it’s engraved,’ Swift peered at the back of a gold fob watch. ‘Randolph St George, M & P.’
‘Mama and Papa,’ Persi suggested.
‘Um,’ Swift handed it to her. ‘It suggests we’re dealing with the right man.’
Persi came across to me.
‘Would you keep this?’ She offered the watch.
‘Of course.’
‘At least we’ve found him, Heathcliff.’ She looked up, sympathy in her grey-blue eyes. ‘It will bring the family some peace.’
‘Yes… erm, not Heathcliff, old stick.’
‘Lennox.’ She slipped her arms around my neck and gave me a hug, then returned to help Swift.
‘A few coins, a key, possibly from his travelling trunk.’ Swift paused. ‘I can’t find a wallet.’
‘It may have been in his case,’ Persi suggested.
Swift muttered something in return and continued his search. ‘Wait.’ He carefully drew an envelope from inside Randolph’s waistcoat pocket. He turned away from the shrunken corpse to focus the torch light on the letter.
‘What is it?’ I moved to join them.
He turned it over in his hands. ‘It’s addressed to Mrs P. St George.’
‘Penelope wouldn’t have had the title when she was married to Randolph,’ Persi said.
Swift hesitated. ‘Should we give it to h
er first?’ He could be surprisingly sensitive.
‘She’s a suspect,’ I reminded him.
‘Yes, but…’
‘Open it, Swift.’ It was my turn to be practical.
‘I think you should,’ Persi agreed.
‘Very well.’ He slipped a finger under the sealed fold and pulled away the flap. The letter had been written on cheap paper, fragile and thin, it was foxed with red mould, the ink faded to a dull sepia.
‘Dearest Penny, how much I miss you and I haven’t even left Lanscombe yet. We worked on the induction balance for three solid days, making sure everything was tip top, no loose wires or broken solders to hamper our efforts. We are ready to prove its worth in the goldfields, and have high hopes of selling the patent to American investors in new technologies.
But I have even more exciting news to impart, we have found the tomb. Is it not extraordinary news! After all these centuries, we have discovered Lady Rosamond with my induction balance, the most modern invention to reveal the most ancient mystery. We were testing the I.B…’ Swift broke off. ‘That must mean Induction Balance.’
‘Yes, of course it must.’ It was my turn to be tetchy. ‘Carry on.’
He turned the page over. ‘We found a signal at the castle, it was made by a ring of iron under the earth. After much digging and removal of debris, we uncovered a trap door. It was utterly remarkable. Naturally we explored, our scientific testing forgotten in our haste. The tunnel led down, then up, and took us to steps within the very walls of the tower. There we discovered a secret chamber above the Lady Chapel. It is as below, circular, but with beds of stone set in cosy alcoves. In one such, we discovered the Lady, lying as if she were merely asleep - although much decayed. In her hands she held the Cross of St George, made entirely of gold. It is much smaller than we’d believed, but very fine. I was almost overcome, tears stole into my eyes at the sight of her, our own lost Chatelaine. Sinclair was cock-a-hoop, he wanted to take the cross to America, saying it would fetch a fine price among the merchants and collectors of antiquities.
I forbade it entirely. The cross belongs to Lanscombe and should remain in the hands of Lady Rosamond until the family have chance to discuss the matter. He was piqued, but after some sharp words he understood my sentiment and offered an apology. And so, when you have regained your health, my darling, I gift you this fine task - go and find the Chatelaine on her bed of stone and retrieve the cross. Then you and dear old Ma and Pa can decide how best to proceed.
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 20