Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom

by Nancy Atherton

  He was stranded in Shepney, along with his compatriots.

  “As long as everyone believed he was napping, he could keep his stash in his room,” I said. “He didn’t have to worry about a maid stumbling across it because his room wouldn’t be cleaned until after he checked out. When he realized that he would be staying at The King’s Ransom for several days, though, he must have decided to hide his stash in a place Housekeeping doesn’t clean.”

  The tunnels.

  “The tunnels,” I repeated with a satisfied nod.

  To recapitulate: Monsieur Renault obtains illegal drugs in Marseille, a city known as a nexus for the drug trade. He uses a bus tour to smuggle the drugs into England. He pretends to nap at The King’s Ransom so that he can sneak out of the inn via a smugglers’ tunnel and sell his detestable wares in Shepney. When the cyclone compels him to stay at the inn for several days, he hides his supply of drugs in a tunnel to avoid detection by Housekeeping. Did he make the noises that disturbed you, the bishop, and poor little Jemima?

  “He must have,” I said. “I can’t explain the laughter, but the creaking noise could have come from the secret door he discovered in his room—the door that gave him access to the tunnel—and the footsteps are even easier to explain: We must have heard him sneaking through the tunnel to get to his stash.”

  Why would Monsieur Renault visit his stash at half past two in the morning?

  “Because sleepy people are more likely to believe in ghosts than wide-awake people,” I said triumphantly.

  Hence your revelation about a famously haunted inn providing good cover for a criminal. Monsieur Renault utilizes the inn’s well-known reputation as a gathering place for ghosts to deflect attention away from any noise he might make in the tunnel.

  “Jemima was the only one who believed he was a ghost,” I reminded her. “You blamed the noises he made on the storm and a wandering guest; Christopher blamed them on an architectural quirk; and I shifted my blame from one thing to another because I didn’t know what to think.”

  I suppose other guests might blame the noises on a similarly wide range of causes.

  “Some guests probably slept through them,” I said. “Monsieur Renault knew what he was doing when he chose to visit his stash in the wee hours.”

  Your story seems plausible, Lori, but you haven’t yet explained Steve’s role in it.

  “I think he was a dealer, too, before he was put away,” I said. “Why else would Kenneth make a lame joke about Steve’s stash?”

  Kenneth’s joke supplied you with the missing connection between Steve and Monsieur Renault.

  “If they were in the same line of business,” I said, “Monsieur Renault could know all sorts of ugly things about Steve. Remember the French words I overheard when they were arguing? Le prix, un escroc, and non, non, non!”

  The price, a crook, and no, no, no! Yes, I do remember.

  “Maybe Monsieur Renault offered to cut Steve in on a deal, for old time’s sake,” I said. “He’d sweeten the deal by reminding Steve of the high prices drugs fetch. When Steve called him a crook and told him to take a hike, Monsieur Renault used blackmail to guarantee his silence.”

  It would certainly explain Steve’s rage. To be tempted, taunted, and threatened by a former associate would be a reformed criminal’s greatest nightmare.

  “To tempt, taunt, and threaten an ex-con who’s trying to go straight is just about the most evil thing a man can do,” I said darkly. “If I’d been in Steve’s shoes, I’m not sure Monsieur Renault would still be walking around in his.”

  Let us be thankful that you’ll never find yourself in Steve’s position. I must admit that I’m impressed by your hypothetical version of events, Lori. I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but I can’t deny its internal logic. Will you share it with the Hancocks?

  “Not yet,” I said. “Not until I have proof.”

  You’re not going to search for Monsieur Renault’s stash, are you?

  “I have to,” I insisted. “I can’t dump a bucketful of unfounded suspicions on the Hancocks, not when they have so much on their minds. You said it yourself, Dimity: They’re raising two children while running a demanding business, to which I would add that they’re doing both during an emergency. I can’t ask them to drop everything just because I’ve come up with a plausible theory. If they accuse Monsieur Renault of a crime he didn’t commit, they might create an international incident, and that’s the last thing they need right now. Before I go to them, I have to have some sort of proof to back up my allegations.”

  I realize that you feel a sense of obligation to the Hancocks, Lori, but I must urge you to reconsider what I believe to be a foolhardy course of action.

  There was the word I’d expected to see, and I knew pretty much what would follow.

  Please don’t allow your natural stubbornness to keep you from listening to reason. If you learned nothing else from Horatio Best’s history lesson, you should have learned that criminals are deeply unpleasant people. They do not care for unexpected company. They object strenuously to uninvited guests. What will you do if you happen upon Monsieur Renault and his stash? Beg his pardon and tiptoe away? Do you really think he’d let you leave?

  “I’m not crazy,” I retorted. “I’m aware that Monsieur Renault may be armed and dangerous. I’d rather come face-to-face with a badger than bump into him in his tunnel. But I won’t bump into him because he doesn’t enter the tunnel during the day. I’m looking for evidence, Dimity, not a confrontation.”

  The pause that followed seemed to go on for several centuries, but Aunt Dimity’s handwriting finally reappeared, scrolling across the page less frantically than it had during her attempt to divert me from my foolhardy course of action.

  I apologize for underestimating you, Lori. You’ve clearly thought this through. I’d be happier if you left the investigation to the proper authorities, but I understand why you’re reluctant to voice your suspicions. It would be unkind to trouble the Hancocks with them, and it would be unfair to Monsieur Renault to present them without any proof.

  “Thanks, Dimity,” I said, smiling for the first time since I’d opened the journal. “I would have gone ahead anyway—”

  Naturally.

  “—but I wanted you to understand why,” I finished.

  Do you have a plan?

  “Sort of,” I said. “It couldn’t have been too hard for Monsieur Renault to open his tunnel. Someone would have noticed if he’d used a sledgehammer to break through a brick wall.”

  I agree. Ghosts aren’t that noisy.

  “He must have discovered a tunnel entrance that was overlooked during the inn’s refurbishment,” I went on. “As I said before, it must be an unsealed entrance that creaks when he opens it.”

  You’ll need a key if you’re going to sneak into his room to search for a tunnel entrance, Lori.

  “I don’t intend to sneak into his room,” I said. “I intend to look for a tunnel entrance in the attic. There must be one. I wouldn’t have heard his footsteps so clearly if the tunnel he discovered wasn’t connected to the attic.”

  Allow me to suggest a starting point: The sound of footsteps seemed to come from your staircase.

  I looked toward the staircase, but my gaze came to rest on the immense mahogany wardrobe.

  “The wardrobe is right next to the staircase door,” I said slowly, as the gears in my head began to spin again.

  Are you about to have another revelation, my dear?

  “I believe I am,” I said, looking down at the journal. “My wardrobe at home is fitted with drawers and shelves and a bar for clothes hangers. The attic’s wardrobe is just a big wooden box with a few hooks and a single shelf. The shelf is so high up I can barely reach it.”

  One would expect an older wardrobe to have a greater number of shelves and perhaps a few drawers. It is an old w
ardrobe, isn’t it?

  “It’s very old,” I said. “When I first met Jean Hancock, she told me it looked as if it had been in the attic ever since the inn was built.”

  Wardrobes as we know them didn’t exist when the inn was built, Lori. They didn’t come into fashion until the eighteenth century.

  “So our wardrobe could have been made around the time Godfrey Shuttleworth owned the inn,” I said, as the gears kept grinding. “Why would he put a wardrobe in the attic, Dimity? It’s not a guest room, and I can’t imagine him taking the wardrobe apart and putting it together just to store it up here. And he would have had to dismantle it because it’s too big to bring up the stairs in one piece.”

  Perhaps he intended to use it for storage.

  “Jean told me it was empty,” I said.

  It could have been emptied by anyone at any time, Lori, but its lack of contents may be significant. The pine chest of drawers was full of seashells, the teak bookcase was full of books, and the bandboxes were full of hats, yet the wardrobe was empty. One might describe it as conspicuously empty.

  “It wasn’t completely empty, though,” I said. “Jean found the smuggler’s inventory on the shelf.”

  I wonder why it was left there.

  “So do I,” I said, getting to my feet. “Excuse me for a minute, Dimity. I’m going to take a closer look at the wardrobe.”

  If the minute turns into hours, Lori, please be careful. Old tunnels can be dangerous places, even when they’re unoccupied by dangerous criminals.

  “I’ll keep an eye out for badgers,” I promised.

  I placed the blue journal on the octagonal table and took the camping lantern with me as I dragged the Windsor armchair across the room. After removing my suitcase from the wardrobe, I used the chair as a step stool and held the lantern high while I examined the solitary shelf.

  I saw nothing, but when I extended my free hand all the way to the back of the shelf, my fingers brushed against an object that had escaped Jean Hancock’s inspection. It felt like a short length of stiff wire. When I pulled it toward me, I saw that one end of the wire had been bent to form a hook. I couldn’t work out a relationship between the bent wire and the smuggler’s inventory, but I slipped it into my pocket before stepping onto the floor.

  I pushed the armchair aside and climbed into the wardrobe, placing the camping lantern at my feet. I wondered if Kenneth would approve of my technique as I tapped the back panels. After a while, I began to wish that I’d asked him for a few tapping tips.

  Though I listened intently for a hollow sound, the only sound I heard was the dull thud of my knuckles against solid mahogany. I tapped every inch of the back panels, from top to bottom and from side to side, but I might as well have been tapping on concrete. Stymied, I bent to pick up the lantern and froze as my heart did a backflip.

  The lantern had picked out a deep knot in the wide boards that formed the bottom of the wardrobe. I’d noticed the hollow clunk of my hiking boots as I’d moved around inside the wardrobe, but I’d assumed it was due to the space between its floor and the attic’s. The knot suggested a different explanation.

  I climbed out of the wardrobe and knelt before it. With a trembling hand, I pulled the stiff wire from my pocket and inserted its hooked end into the knot. It fit perfectly. I gripped the wire firmly, tugged, and gasped as a trapdoor swung up to reveal a staircase descending into utter darkness.

  Twenty-two

  The trapdoor was fairly heavy, but it wasn’t hinged. With an effort, I lifted it out of the wardrobe and laid it and the bent wire beside the armchair. It seemed prudent to leave clues for a search party to follow in case I became lost or injured while hunting for Monsieur Renault’s stash. Gripping the lantern securely, I stepped onto the staircase and began my descent into the smugglers’ tunnel. Kenneth, I thought, would have given his eyeteeth to come with me.

  Apart from the darkness and a few low-hanging cobwebs, the escape tunnel wasn’t particularly spooky. It was warmer than the attic, and it smelled better than the cave. As far as I could see, which, admittedly, wasn’t very far, it was a highly sophisticated piece of engineering. The walls and the ceiling were clad in what looked like ship’s planks, and the wooden stairs were in much better shape than the stairs leading to the attic, though they were shallower and considerably steeper.

  At the bottom of the stairs I came to a level passage that forced me to turn right or left. I turned right and walked on until I reached a dead end. With a sigh, I retraced my steps, hoping that a second dead end wouldn’t bring my investigation to an abrupt and ignominious conclusion. I’d gone no more than ten feet past my staircase when I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. Somewhere behind me, and not far away, a door opened with a nerve-shredding creak.

  I wheeled around, wishing I’d brought my shoulder bag to use as a weapon. There was no place to hide and it was too dark to run, so I stood my ground, ready to roar at the top of my lungs while I swung the camping lantern at Monsieur Renault’s head. A flashlight blinded me as a figure appeared in the passage. I could almost hear the fat little Frenchman pull a cosh from his pocket as I tightened my grip on the lantern and waited for him to attack.

  “Lori? What are you doing here?” said a voice that was unmistakably British.

  “Christopher?” I put a hand out to support myself while my heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a moderate trot. “What are you doing here? And I think we should keep our voices down so we don’t freak out other guests.”

  The bishop lowered his flashlight and crossed to where I was standing.

  “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You said the same thing in St. Alfege’s,” I reminded him, “and yet here we are again. Where did you come from?”

  “My room,” he replied. “I was reading the Venerable Bede’s account of St. Aidan’s remarkable life when I heard footsteps similar to those I’d heard late at night. Since I was awake this time, I had no trouble determining that the sound emanated from my wardrobe.”

  “Godfrey Shuttleworth must have spent a fortune on trick wardrobes,” I murmured, shaking my head.

  “I beg your pardon?” Christopher asked.

  “Never mind,” I told him. “Go on.”

  “To make a long story short,” he continued, “I discovered a sliding panel in the back of my wardrobe. It evidently hadn’t been used for quite some time, because when I opened it—”

  “It screamed like a banshee,” I interrupted. “I know. I heard.” I looked down at my hiking boots. “You must have heard me walking to the dead end and back.”

  “The dead end?” he said.

  I pointed over his shoulder. “Behind you, a few yards past the secret staircase I discovered in my wardrobe. Now that I think of it, the dead end must be near Jemima’s bedroom. Her room is on the same floor as yours and across the corridor. If you go one way in the tunnel, you come to her room. If you go the other . . .” I swung around to peer into the shadows beyond our circle of light. “Well, I don’t know where the tunnel goes after it passes your room, but at some point I think it goes down.”

  “To a cave?” Christopher suggested.

  “Possibly,” I said. “I won’t know until I get there.”

  “What prompted you to look in your wardrobe?” he asked, frowning. “You couldn’t have heard your own footsteps.”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, “and I can’t make it short.”

  “No matter,” he said. “You can tell it to me after we’ve finished our journey of exploration.” He ran his hand along the wall. “Marvelous construction. I’ll wager Godfrey Shuttleworth hired local shipbuilders to construct his tunnels, perhaps the same shipbuilders who constructed vessels used in the smuggling trade.”

  “Are you sure you want to come along?” I asked, remembering Aunt Dimity’s words of caution.

/>   He looked taken aback. “You must have a very poor opinion of me if you think I would pass up a chance to explore a smugglers’ tunnel. Besides, we have a responsibility to the Hancocks to find out who else has been using it. They’ll wish to have a word with the culprit who frightened their daughter.”

  “Yes, but the tunnel could be partially collapsed or full of rabid bats,” I pointed out. “I don’t mind putting myself in danger, but I’d rather not drag you into it with me.”

  “What kind of friend would I be if I allowed you to face danger alone?” he demanded indignantly. “And how dare you suggest that I require dragging? I’m here of my own volition, and I have no intention of turning back. I will, however, fetch my coat and hat. The tunnel’s subterranean section—assuming it has one—may be cooler than the section that traverses the inn. I do not wish to attend tomorrow’s service with the sniffles.” He spun on his heel and marched back to his room.

  “And people call me stubborn,” I muttered.

  When I saw him in his black overcoat and his homburg hat, I had to admit that I was glad of his company. Though the tunnel wasn’t overwhelmingly spooky, it wasn’t the sort of place I’d choose for a picnic. I felt better knowing that I wouldn’t have to face its shadows alone.

  I led the way through level passages, down steep staircases, and across small landings. We didn’t run into any more dead ends, but we occasionally heard muffled voices in places where hidden doors had been replaced by brick walls during the inn’s refurbishment. Christopher must have thought I had a passion for fine carpentry, because I scrutinized every nook and cranny we passed. Instead of mysterious packets of powder or pills, however, I saw nothing but cobwebs.

  A subtle waft of cool air prepared us for the change in decor we encountered when the tunnel went underground. Rough-hewn stone replaced ship’s planks as we descended a long, straight staircase carved out of the living rock. If we were following in Monsieur Renault’s despicable footsteps, I thought, he was in better shape than I gave him credit for.