The farther we went, the more keenly aware I became of the great weight bearing down on the tunnel. Far above us, Jemima and Nicholas played with their toys; Jean and Gavin attended to their guests; Steve prepared exquisite meals in the kitchen; and Monsieur Renault continued to infect Shepney with his filthy trade. Would he betray Steve as well? I asked myself. When he realized that the game was up, would he reveal Steve’s ugly secret to the police? I could only hope that the Frenchman’s crimes would overshadow the chef’s.
The stone staircase delivered us to a stone passage that went on for a short distance before it opened without warning into a space ten times the size of Kenneth’s cave. Boulders as big as bison littered the rock-strewn floor, and stalactites hung like hag’s hair from the roof. The distant drip of water echoed faintly in the cavern, and a rustle hinted that we weren’t alone.
I was about to ask Christopher if he knew how to deal with badgers when we came face-to-face with a much more fearsome creature. I caught a fleeting gleam of black leather as Steve reared up from behind a boulder, his face wild and his huge hands covered in blood.
“What have you done?” I cried, too paralyzed with horror to scan the ground for the lifeless body of Monsieur Renault.
“Be quiet,” he growled.
With what little courage I had left, I protested, “I will not be—”
“Quiet,” he cut in, “or you’ll spook them.”
“Spook whom?” Christopher asked with unfailing politeness.
Steve turned and nodded at a furry orange face with a pair of bright eyes that peered at us from between two jagged rocks. To my everlasting astonishment, the scary giant in the black leather jacket smiled angelically as he beheld the fox.
“She’s a vixen,” he said in a tender voice I scarcely recognized. “If you sit down and talk low, she may let you see her kits. She has three of them. They’re used to me, but they don’t know who you are.”
My knees were so weak with residual fear that I had no choice but to sit. I sank onto a convenient rock, and Christopher found one of his own. Steve retrieved a flashlight from behind the boulder, then hunkered down across from us with his back to the vixen, as if to show her that he would protect her. He laid the flashlight on the ground, then stripped a pair of latex gloves from his hands, turning them inside out as he did so. They were the same kind of gloves he’d given me to use during my brief career as a beet peeler.
“Their den must have flooded, so she brought them up here,” he said, shoving the gloves into his jacket pocket. “Then the lower part of the cavern flooded and she couldn’t get out. I heard them on Tuesday night when I got back to my room.” He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin, as if he were searching his memory. “Wednesday morning, it would have been, since it was past midnight. Thought it was the storm at first. Turned out the noises were coming from my—”
“Wardrobe,” Christopher and I chorused, but softly, so as not to alarm the kits.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Steve nodded. “The back of it slid sideways. Made a hell of a screech until I oiled it.”
I looked at Christopher, who nodded wordlessly. We’d identified the culprit who’d frightened Jemima.
“I followed the sounds all the way down here,” Steve continued. He glanced over his shoulder. “And there they were, the poor little mites, half starved and shivering. The vixen is still nursing, so I brought down a couple of blankets, a flask of clean water, and some raw rabbit meat from the kitchen. Foxes’ll eat anything, but she looked like she needed meat.”
“Nursing mothers need plenty of protein,” I confirmed.
I’d thought the scene in Kenneth’s cave was surreal, but it wasn’t even in the same surreal ballpark as our little tableau. I’d never in my wildest dreams imagined that I would one day discuss breast-feeding basics with an ex-con in a cavern while a bishop and a mama fox looked on. It was almost disappointing to learn that the blood on Steve’s gloves had come from raw meat instead of Monsieur Renault’s mangled corpse. Literally as well as figuratively, he had no blood on his hands.
“A couple of days of good feeding put her back on her feet,” Steve informed us. “She could hunt for her own food now if there was anything for her to catch, but there’s nothing back here except for snails.”
“No rats?” I said. “No bats?”
Steve shook his head. “You’ll find rats near the cave mouth, maybe, but you won’t find them back here, and I’ve yet to see a bat.”
“It’s just as well,” said Christopher. “Otherwise, the inn would be overrun with rats and bats. There’s no barrier to keep them from entering the tunnel.”
“There’s no barrier to keep thieves and murderers from entering the tunnel, either,” I said.
“Yes, there is,” said Steve. “There’s a huge rockfall just inside the cave mouth. The vixen could get past it, but no human could.”
“Why hasn’t she gone up the tunnel?” I asked.
“Could be she doesn’t like the way it smells,” said Steve. He held up his outsized hands. “I wear gloves to keep my scent off the rabbit meat. She doesn’t mind me leaving food for her, but I wouldn’t want her to get too tame.”
“It may be too late,” said Christopher.
I followed his gaze and witnessed the miraculous sight of three kits, miniatures of their mother, standing beside her, eyeing us curiously.
“They trust you,” said Steve.
“They trust you,” Christopher said firmly. “If you weren’t here, they’d hide from us.”
“Maybe,” Steve allowed.
“There’s no maybe about it,” I said. “We didn’t save their lives. You did, and they know it.”
“I reckon they’ll be off soon,” he said, with a wistful note in his gruff voice. “She’ll know when it’s safe to leave. She checks every day. But I’ll keep feeding her until they’re gone.”
We sat in silence for a time, and the kits became bolder. Under their mother’s watchful gaze, they began to tumble over one another and to make strange chittering noises as they played—noises that could, I thought, be mistaken for children’s laughter when magnified and distorted by the cavern. I felt as if I were slicing through mysteries like a hot knife through buttery brioche, but a few questions remained unanswered and I didn’t quite know how to pose them.
“You’ve done a wonderful thing, Steve,” said Christopher.
“I’ve done nothing anyone else wouldn’t do,” Steve countered.
A green light flashed in my head and I saw my opening. “Monsieur Renault wouldn’t have lifted a fat finger to save them.”
“Him,” Steve snarled, sounding like his old self again. “Renault doesn’t care about anyone but Renault.”
“He certainly knows how to irritate people,” I said. “I overheard the two of you arguing when I came down to help in the kitchen. I couldn’t understand what you were saying because I don’t speak French, but you sounded angry.”
“I could have wrung his neck,” Steve acknowledged. “The guy who was head chef before me used to buy truffles from him—”
“He sells truffles?” I broke in, but it wasn’t a real question. I was just putting off the moment when I’d have to admit to myself that I’d mistaken a truffle transaction for a drug deal.
“Renault gets them from his cousin in Provence,” Steve explained. “He was willing to sell them to me, but when the storm hit, the rotten crook jacked his price up sky-high. When I refused to pay, he said he’d never sell his cousin’s truffles to me again.” He snorted derisively. “As if I care. I can make do with porcini until I source a new supplier.”
“Porcini,” I said dully, picking up on another clue I’d missed. “I think Monsieur Renault found a buyer for his truffles. I’m pretty sure I saw him selling them to a red-haired woman earlier today.”
“That would be Samantha Johnson,” said S
teve. “She’s one of our local gourmets. She wouldn’t care what she paid for them, as long as she could outdo Jake Peters. Cooking’s a competitive sport for some.”
“They’d lose if they competed with you,” said Christopher. “Your porcini risotto was absolument magnifique.”
“Merci,” said Steve, sounding gratified.
“Where did you learn to speak French?” Christopher asked.
“A French chef taught classes at my, uh, cooking school,” Steve replied with only the slightest of hesitations. “I learned the lingo from him.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “As long as we’re asking questions, I have one for you: Why did you two come down here?”
I was relieved that neither he nor Christopher was looking at me, because the blush that suffused my face would have outshone Kenneth’s. Eating a handful of raw rabbit seemed appealing compared to telling them I’d entered the tunnel in order to prove that Monsieur Renault was a dope dealer. I would have lied through my teeth if Christopher hadn’t stepped in.
“Lori and I heard your sliding door and your footsteps and your little friends through the tunnel,” he explained. “Jemima Hancock heard the queer noises, too, and they upset her. When we discovered our own hidden entrances, we decided to look into the matter in hopes of putting Jemima’s mind at rest.”
“The poor kid,” said Steve, sounding stricken. “I should have known that if I could hear the foxes, other people could, too. I’ll have a talk with Jemima. I’ll bring her and Nicholas down to meet the vixen.”
“I would speak with their parents first,” Christopher advised. “They may wish to conceal the existence of an escape tunnel from their children for fear of their children escaping.”
“You’re right,” said Steve, grinning. “I could’ve done with an escape tunnel when I was a kid, but Jemima and Nicholas will never need one.” He glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “My break has been over for twenty minutes. I’d best get back to work.”
“The finest chef in East Sussex mustn’t keep the dinner crowd waiting,” said Christopher.
Even in the dim light, I could see Steve flush with pride.
Twenty-three
I made my confession to Christopher over another spectacular dinner. To his credit, he didn’t laugh at me for being foolish or chide me for being overly suspicious. He unknowingly concurred with Aunt Dimity when he observed that my revelation had an internal logic, and he helped me to salvage a modicum of self-respect by reminding me that truffles bore a certain resemblance to drugs.
“Truffles are more difficult to procure,” he said, “but they’re equally addictive to those who love them. I’ve never cared for them myself.”
“I prefer porcini,” I said, trying not to drool over the bowl of creamy porcini soup that had been made, I suspected, with Christopher in mind. “Why do you suppose some of the secret entrances were left open during the refurbishment? The tunnel would have led the inn’s owner to every entrance, including yours, mine, and Steve’s. Why didn’t he seal all of them?”
“Perhaps the inn’s owner wished to retain a few escape routes for his own personal use,” said Christopher. “One never knows when one will need to disappear in a hurry.” He gazed thoughtfully at his soup spoon, then looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Then again, there is a bed in the attic.”
“Are you suggesting that my bed was used for illicit trysts?” I feigned shock, then shrugged, saying, “It’s better than a death.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hancock handled the situation well, I thought,” said Christopher. “Jemima needed to see the dead end outside her room and to hear Steve’s story about the foxes in order to understand that there was nothing supernatural about the noises she heard.”
I nodded. “I’m glad they decided not to bring her down to the cavern, though. It was a bit much for me, and I’m a bit older than Jemima, though clearly not much more mature.” I shook my head morosely, then grinned as a more pleasant thought occurred to me. “Kenneth was over the moon when you persuaded the Hancocks to let him take a run through the tunnel. You helped him to realize a childhood dream.”
“He revised his opinion of Steve as well,” said Christopher. “Never again will he make jokes at Steve’s expense or hold his prison record against him.”
“Well done,” I said admiringly. “You tucked a life lesson in with the fun, you crafty old, uh, fox.”
“The bishops’ code of conduct requires it of me,” he said. “Though the fun is optional.”
“I’m glad you included it,” I said. “Kenneth’s a good kid, and he’s worked hard during the emergency. He deserves a reward.”
“He has the distinction of being the last person to use the smugglers’ tunnel,” said Christopher. “The Hancocks are determined to seal it once and for all.”
“I can’t blame them,” I said. “Setting aside the fact that it’s a security hazard, the Hancocks wouldn’t be allowed to open it to guests unless they installed railings and lights and fire alarms and smoke detectors and all sorts of things they can’t afford to install right now.”
“Fortunately, the tunnel will still be there if they can afford to open it sometime in the future,” said Christopher. “I hold fast to my belief that it would be an attraction.”
Tessa arrived with our main course—roast chicken with saffron and lemons—and we ate in blissful silence, savoring the flavors, textures, and fragrances of a dish neither of us had ever had before. After Tessa cleared the table, Steve himself served the dessert I would always associate most closely with him and his enormous heart: apple crumble, with a pitcher of cream for me and a pitcher of custard for Christopher.
We didn’t say much as we made our way upstairs after dinner—I think we were both feeling the effects of a spectacularly full day—but Christopher paused before he opened his door.
“We solved our mysteries, Lori,” he said. “We identified Jemima’s ghost and we deciphered the inn’s sign, though it would be more accurate to say that Horatio deciphered it for us.”
“A half-anchor cask brimming with ill-gotten gains,” I said, nodding. “An invitation to smugglers to make a king’s fortune in dirty money beneath the inn’s roof. But we still don’t know who recorded the smuggler’s inventory or why it was left in the old wardrobe. Did the person who wrote it leave it there? If so—”
“Lori,” Christopher interrupted, looking both amused and exasperated. “We can’t solve every mystery. To paraphrase Mrs. Dodd: Some answers are lost in the mists of time.” He smiled, turned the key in his lock, and said, “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“I’ll see you then,” I said, and walked slowly up the corridor, pondering what I would say to Bill when I telephoned him. I had a feeling he would question my judgment if I told him I’d spent a few hours in a smugglers’ tunnel searching for a stash of illegal drugs, so I decided to tell him about Kenneth’s cave instead. Some things, I thought, were best explained in person.
* * *
—
Sunday lived up to its name as Christopher and I—and hundreds of others—made our way to the village hall for the morning service. Though many of the French tourists were Catholic, all of them poured out of the inn to attend the service, except for Monsieur Renault, who remained in his room, presumably to count the money he’d earned selling overpriced truffles to foolish foodies.
Phillip Lawson greeted us at the door and Trevor ushered us into the dining hall, which had been transformed into a place of worship by the simple expediency of folding all but one of the folding tables and unfolding row upon row of folding chairs. Though Trevor offered Christopher a place of honor in the front row, Christopher declined, preferring to take a seat in the back row, where he would be less likely to steal the limelight from the conscientious young rector.
I preferred to sit in the back row because it allowed me to survey the room w
ithout craning my neck. I couldn’t put a name to every face I saw, but I was surprised by the number of people I recognized: the men who’d hauled grain sacks into St. Alfege’s; the women who’d aided flood refugees in the village hall; the choristers who’d sung at evensong; and assorted shopkeepers, farmers, and villagers I’d seen on one or another of my many jaunts down the high street.
There were also those I could name, even though I’d never laid eyes on them before. Despite the absence of a cockatoo, the family group consisting of two parents, two grandparents, four children, and two Labradors could only be the Bakers, and I was fairly certain that the woman who held two small children by the hand while bestowing a quick kiss on the rector was his wife. Kenneth Cartwright simplified my guessing game by introducing his parents to me. His face shone like the setting sun when I thanked them for raising such a fine young man.
Tessa sat with the weedy sous chefs from The King’s Ransom. Horatio Best, dressed as flamboyantly as ever, sat with the purple-haired and irreplaceable Ursula. Rebecca Hanson sat with her family, and the members of the geriatric gang sat with theirs. The Dodd, Fordyce, Bakewell, and Turner clans were well represented in the dining hall, though Joe Turner turned up without his terriers.
I’d thought it would be easy to distinguish stranded travelers from everyone else in the dining hall, but it was impossible. I could pick out the French tourists because of their accents, but even they were interspersed among the locals. What could best be described as an air of convivial bonhomie pervaded the dining hall, a splendid side effect of an emergency plan that treated refugees and residents alike with openhearted and openhanded generosity.
The Hancocks were almost the last to arrive, and Steve came with them, carrying Nicholas in one massive arm and holding Jemima’s small hand in his somewhat larger one. He had no trouble spotting five empty chairs over the heads of lesser mortals, but the family needed only four, because Nicholas insisted on sitting in Steve’s lap.
Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Page 20