“James took me down to the cellar once,” Kenneth was saying, “and he showed me a tunnel entrance. It had been bricked up good and solid, but we could tell what it was. The bricks didn’t match the rest of the wall and the outline was shaped like a tunnel. We wanted to tap on the paneled walls in the dining room, but his dad wouldn’t let us. He wouldn’t let us tap on the walls in the pub, either.”
“How very shortsighted of him,” Christopher commiserated. “He could have turned the tunnels into an attraction, had you and your friend found any.”
“That’s what we told him,” said Kenneth. “But his dad wouldn’t listen.”
“I suspect he had his hands full running the inn,” said Christopher.
“Our mums said the same thing,” Kenneth said dejectedly, “so we gave up.”
“You saw the tunnel entrance in the cellar,” Christopher reminded him. “Since the Hancocks keep the cellar door locked, you’ve seen something I’ll never see. I must confess to feeling no small amount of envy.”
“I could find out where they keep the key,” Kenneth offered eagerly.
“Best not,” said Christopher. “Bishops aren’t supposed to borrow things without asking permission.”
“Sorry,” said Kenneth. “I forgot you were, uh, you.”
“I’ll never forget today’s excursion,” Christopher declared. “You’re an exemplary guide, Kenneth, and an excellent teacher. I knew nothing of the caves until you showed this one to me.”
“Does anyone—” My voice cracked, so I cleared my throat and started again. “Does anyone use the caves now?”
“For what?” Kenneth asked.
“Storing things,” I said with forced nonchalance. “Hiding things.”
“Not that I know of,” he said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if Steve used them. He has to have some place to stash his—” He broke off, and although I couldn’t see him clearly, I could almost hear him blush. “To . . . to stash his stuff.”
“What sort of stuff would Steve stash in a cave?” Christopher inquired in perplexed tones.
“Wine?” Kenneth ventured. “And . . . and cheese?” He must have known how unconvincing he sounded, because he made a beeline for the cave mouth. “We should get going. My mum will be expecting me. She worries when I’m late for lunch.”
I thought for a moment that he would leave Christopher and me alone in the cave while he sprinted for home, but he waited patiently while our dazzled eyes adjusted to the sunlight, and he led us back up the trail at a pace that didn’t cause Christopher’s lungs—or mine—to burst.
Kenneth was silent until we reached the trailhead, when he swung around to face us, saying in a semipanicked rush, “What I said about Steve—I didn’t mean anything by it. I was only joking, but if my mum finds out I was making fun of him, she’ll kill me.” He gazed at us beseechingly. “Do you think you could, well, keep it to yourselves?”
“It’s against the bishops’ code of conduct to lie,” said Christopher, which I thought was a novel way to describe the Ten Commandments. “Unless your mother asks me about our conversation, however, I will keep it to myself.”
“Your mum won’t hear about it from me,” I promised.
“Thanks,” Kenneth said fervently.
“Thank you, Kenneth,” I said. “I couldn’t have asked for a better guide.”
“Run along now,” Christopher told him. “I believe Lori and I can find our way back to Shepney from here—and we wouldn’t want your mother to worry.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Kenneth nodded and took off.
Christopher opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a tall, slender figure stepped forward from a group of men mucking out a cow pen.
“I have wonderful news!” Phillip Lawson shouted. “My son is innocent!”
Twenty
The young rector sauntered toward us, looking every inch the dairyman. His cheeks were ruddy, wisps of hay clung to his coveralls, and his Wellington boots were caked with a substance I could smell from ten feet away.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the livestock enclosures. “What do you think of our operation?”
“It’s ingenious,” Christopher replied.
“We penned the large animals in the lanes at the height of the storm,” Phillip explained, “but when the wind died down, we moved them out here.”
“I hope someone has recorded your procedures,” said Christopher. “It would be an invaluable template for other communities to use when faced with a similar emergency.”
“It’s all in the master plan,” said Phillip. “We’ve made the plan available online, and we update it regularly as we work out better ways to do things.” He inclined his head toward Christopher. “Before I forget, Bishop Wyndham, you don’t have to take evensong for me this evening. I’ve canceled it. As you may have noticed, it wasn’t drawing a crowd, and the choir asked for extra time in the church to practice before tomorrow’s service at the village hall.”
“The members who participated in last night’s service sang beautifully,” said Christopher. “I look forward to hearing the full choir.”
“Now, about Trevor . . .” The rector folded his arms and explained that he’d had a heart-to-heart with his son. “He claims—and I believe him—that when he delivered the parish magazine to the inn on Wednesday, he found Jemima Hancock sitting all by herself in Captain Pigg’s parlor. She was crying her eyes out. He asked what was wrong, and she said she didn’t want to live at the inn anymore because she kept hearing strange noises in her bedroom at night.”
Christopher and I exchanged glances.
“Trevor had already heard about the inn’s ghosts,” Phillip continued, “so he told Jemima not to worry because everyone heard strange noises in the inn. He told her the noises were made by ghosts who’d lived there for many years, and as long as she left them alone, they wouldn’t bother her.” His gaze shifted from Christopher to me and back again. “You see? My son wasn’t trying to frighten Jemima. He was trying to comfort her.”
“If he was trying to comfort her, why did he make up a new ghost?” I asked. “Why did he tell her that a lady died in my bed?”
“He didn’t,” said Phillip. “Trevor insists that he never mentioned a specific ghost. Jemima must have taken the basic idea of ghosts and embroidered it to account for the noises she heard.”
“She thought the noises came from the attic,” I said reflectively, “so she figured a ghost must roam around there at night.” I recalled Jemima’s somber expression as she handed Captain Pigg to me. “No wonder she was afraid for me. After listening to Trevor, she must have thought that her ghost would object to a real, live human being spending the night in the attic.”
“Did Jemima describe the ghostly noises to Trevor?” Christopher asked.
“More or less,” said Phillip. “Trevor had the impression that she heard footsteps, laughter, and another noise she had to imitate because she couldn’t put a name to it. It sounded something like . . .” He proceeded to do a fairly accurate impersonation of a creaking hinge. Then he smiled. “The inn must be an uncanny home for an imaginative seven-year-old, especially during the kinds of storms we’ve had lately.”
“It must,” Christopher agreed. “I’m pleased to hear that Trevor had good intentions, Phillip. He can hardly be blamed for Jemima’s embroidery. Have you cleared his name with Mr. and Mrs. Hancock?”
“I filled them in first thing this morning,” said Phillip. “They weren’t thrilled to learn that their daughter had confided in Trevor instead of sharing her fears with them, but they understand that children sometimes find it easier to talk to another child than to their parents.”
“And parents can’t keep tabs on their children every minute of every day,” I put in. “We aren’t all-seeing, however much we try to
be.”
“Very true,” Phillip said ruefully. “If we were, the church-bell incident wouldn’t have happened.”
“A lot of incidents wouldn’t have happened,” I said with a sympathetic chuckle. “Remind me to tell you about my sons and the water balloons one day.”
“I shall,” he said. A pickup truck loaded with grain sacks pulled up to the edge of the open space. He jutted his chin toward it, saying, “My cue to get back to work. Will I see you at the service tomorrow, Lori?”
“I’ll be there,” I told him. “I have a lot to be thankful for.”
“We all do,” said Phillip. “Until then!”
He sauntered away to unload the truck, and Christopher turned his head to look at me. I expected him to quiz me about my revelation, but he simply proposed that we return to The King’s Ransom for a late lunch.
Christopher had to carry the conversational burden while we walked back to the inn, because my mind was elsewhere. He chatted about Horatio Best’s history lecture, Trevor’s unexpected sensitivity, and Kenneth’s potential as a paleontologist—“He has a retentive mind, and he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty”—but he never once mentioned my revelation.
I was grateful to him for not pressing me on it. I wasn’t ready to discuss the suspicions Horatio’s offhand remark had inflamed. I wanted to assemble the puzzle before I presented it to Christopher, and to do that, I needed a very specific kind of help.
We crossed paths with Jean Hancock in the inn’s foyer. After admitting that Trevor had risen in her estimation, she asked if we’d had lunch in the village hall again.
“We haven’t had lunch,” Christopher informed her. “We were otherwise engaged.”
“I’m afraid we’re setting up for dinner in the dining room,” she said apologetically, “but you could have a bite to eat in the pub, or I could have something sent up to your room.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I told her. “I’m not very hungry.” I was, in fact, hungry enough to eat the rooster-festooned carpet, but I was too preoccupied to enjoy a pub meal, and I wished to avoid a room-service intrusion while I was in the attic.
“I confess that the pub is a little too lively for me,” said Christopher, “but a sandwich sent to my room would be greatly appreciated.”
“I’ll fetch a menu,” said Jean.
“I don’t need a menu, Mrs. Hancock,” he said. “I’m willing to trust your chef’s judgment.”
“I’ll let him know.” Jean began to turn away, but I held out my hand to stop her.
“I have something for you,” I said, pulling the well-traveled notebook from my shoulder bag and presenting it to her. “I found it in the attic last night. I hope you don’t mind, but I showed it to Horatio Best this morning.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Jean. “I intended to show it to him, but with one thing and another, I never got around to it. Someone left it on a shelf in the old wardrobe. I stuck it in the bookcase for safekeeping and promptly forgot about it.”
“It’s a smuggler’s inventory,” I told her. “Horatio thinks it’s authentic.”
“He hopes you’ll donate it to a museum,” Christopher added.
“We’ll ask an expert for a second opinion,” Jean temporized, “but I’d like to display it in the inn. I think our guests would find it interesting.”
“I know I would,” I said.
“As would I,” said Christopher.
“In the meantime, I’ll put it on the desk in the office so it won’t slip my mind again.” She smiled. “And I’ll order your sandwich right away, Bishop Wyndham, before it slips my mind as well!”
She hurried off to the kitchen. Christopher and I climbed the stairs more slowly, in part because we’d done a fair amount of climbing already, but mainly because Horatio’s lecture allowed us to see the inn’s convoluted innards in a whole new light.
Christopher didn’t have to do the lion’s share of the talking as we made our way through the zigzagging corridors, past the oddly shaped alcoves, and up and down the peculiar little staircases. We both commented on the cleverness of Godfrey Shuttleworth’s layout, the difficulties it would present to a search party, and the valuable minutes it would afford a smuggler attempting to dart into a bolt-hole or to flee via an escape tunnel.
We parted ways at the door to Christopher’s room. Again he refrained from grilling me about my revelation, saying only that he hoped to see me at dinner. His restraint made my admiration for him shoot through the roof. If our positions had been reversed, I would have pestered him as relentlessly as Monsieur Renault had pestered the irreplaceable Ursula.
“You’ll see me at dinner,” I assured him. “If you don’t, send out a search party.”
“Why?” he said. “They’d never find you.”
I knew he was joking, but for a moment it seemed as though he could read my mind.
Twenty-one
The attic wasn’t much brighter than it had been at dawn. Dust motes glinted in the gray light leaking through the dormer windows, and silence reigned, unbroken by ghostly sounds. I dropped my shoulder bag on the bed, but I didn’t remove my jacket. The October sun was too weak to warm the attic.
I lit the camping lantern, took the blue journal from the octagonal table, and sat with it in the Windsor armchair. I paused to steel myself before I opened it because I was about to do something Aunt Dimity would deem foolhardy. I was determined to do it with or without her blessing, but I hoped to convince her that it was a risk worth taking.
“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “I’ve had a revelation.”
I was too wound up to smile as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to curl and loop across the page.
Good afternoon, Lori. You seem tense. Would I be right to assume that you’ve had a disturbing revelation rather than a pleasant one?
“You would,” I said. “It’s also a bit complicated.”
Disturbing revelations are almost always complicated, my dear, but I’ll try to follow along as you attempt to untangle yours.
“Okay,” I said. “Here goes . . .”
For my benefit as much as Aunt Dimity’s, I began with a review of the conversation we’d had the previous evening. I repeated what I’d told her about Steve, the chef who’d served time in prison; Monsieur Renault, the obnoxious Frenchman with whom Steve had argued; Horatio Best, the authority on all things Shepney; and Trevor Lawson, whose ghost stories had scared Jemima. I touched lightly upon Christopher’s observations regarding the inn’s architectural quirks and concluded with my discovery of the smuggler’s inventory.
I then brought Aunt Dimity up to date on everything that had happened since I’d last spoken to her. I described the surreptitious encounter I’d witnessed between Monsieur Renault and the red-haired woman, emphasizing the exchange of his white packet for her manila envelope. I summarized Horatio Best’s lecture on smuggling as well as his illuminating comments on the inn’s smuggler-friendly features, including its shamelessly pro-smuggler sign. I told her about the impromptu expedition to the smugglers’ cave, and I repeated Kenneth’s tellingly truncated allusion to Steve’s need for a place to stash “stuff.” Finally, I recounted Phillip Lawson’s spirited defense of his son, underscoring Trevor’s assertion that Jemima had been frightened by the same noises Christopher and I had heard: footsteps, laughter, and creaking.
“Are you with me so far?” I asked when I completed my two-part preamble.
I’m hanging on by my fingernails, Lori, but I’m with you.
“Dig in,” I advised, “because the story is about to get complicated.” I took a steadying breath before continuing. “I had my revelation when Horatio told us that smugglers hid loot in table tombs. He said a churchyard’s sanctity provided them with good cover. And it struck me that a famously haunted inn might work the same way. It might provide a modern-day criminal with good co
ver.”
I presume that Monsieur Renault is the modern-day criminal.
“After what I saw on the high street, I’m convinced that he’s a drug dealer,” I said confidently. “Tessa the waitress told me he’s from Marseille. Marseille is a busy port town, like Rye was in the eighteenth century. It’s also a notorious venue for drug trafficking.”
Vast amounts of illicit drugs passed through Marseille in my time as well. Such a pity. It creates all sorts of difficulties for the decent, hardworking people who live there.
“It creates business opportunities for shady characters like Monsieur Renault,” I said. “He could smuggle drugs into England via the bus tour, and sell them in towns on the tour’s itinerary.”
Drug addicts in Shepney. It’s a dispiriting thought, but sadly believable. Addiction is an equal-opportunity scourge—it can destroy lives as easily in a small village as in a big city.
“It’s a scourge because of people like Monsieur Renault,” I said. “According to Tessa, he’s taken the same bus tour repeatedly. He’s been to Shepney several times before, and he’s always reserved a room—the same room—ahead of time.”
Yes, you told me that he prefers to nap while the rest of the group explores the village.
“What if he doesn’t take a nap?” I said. “What if he sneaks out of his room to sell drugs?”
How could he sneak out of his room, Lori? Someone at the inn would be bound to see him, unless . . . Oh, I see.
“I knew you would,” I said. “Don’t ask me how, but he must have found a connection between his room and one of Godfrey Shuttleworth’s sealed tunnels. It would explain why he always requests the same room.”
It would. If he could get into the tunnels, he could use them to slip in and out of the inn unseen.
“One of his deals must have taken longer than usual,” I said. “That’s why he didn’t board the bus on time. Under normal circumstances, his tardiness wouldn’t have mattered all that much, but with the cyclone closing the roads, it mattered a lot.”
Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Page 18