by David Wood
They paused while Crowley caught his breath, then set off through the thick undergrowth toward the castle ruins.
The day had improved as they traveled and while it was still overcast, the light rain had stopped. The gray plastered red bricks of the remains towered over them like broken teeth, long struts of scaffold braced into them in several places, their other ends jammed into the ground and braced with iron spikes and fallen brickwork. Vines and poison oak had encroached well inside the boundaries of the buildings and they stepped carefully, watching out for wildlife as well as the irritating vegetation and any potholes. It didn’t take long to establish that while the ruins were interesting in their own right, despite the massive degradation, there was nothing else of interest to see. Rose stood back and sighed, disappointed.
“Another bust,” Crowley said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, love.”
She shrugged. “At least we’re getting to see parts of the country we wouldn’t have known about otherwise. And you’re not being chased by armed guards this time.”
“Yet.”
“Well, here’s hoping. I guess we head back? The current will take us a fair way down river and we’ll have to hike back to the car carrying the canoe. Or maybe you can hike back while I wait with the canoe and then you can bring the car back to me?”
Crowley didn’t respond and Rose turned her head to see why. He was looking intently at something off to their left. A rill of nerves fluttered in Rose’s gut as she quickly looked the same way, wondering if maybe guards or police had arrived. But he was looking at a plain wall.
“What is it, Jake?”
“Wait here a moment, yeah?”
Without waiting for an answer he stalked off between two bulging clumps of tangled vines and ran his hand over the wall. Rose watched as he looked closer, then stepped back and checked above. Her brow knitted as he lifted one leg and before she could yell out for him to stop he’d driven a front kick hard into the bricks. He leaped back as the bricks all crumbled in and bits of mortar and showers of dust rained down from above.
“Jake, you idiot!” she yelled. “What are you doing? Get away from there before it all comes down.”
He jogged backwards, not taking his eyes off the wall. Rose held her breath. The dust settled and Crowley turned, smiling at her. “It’s a bricked up doorway!”
“That’s you being careful, is it?”
“As careful as I could be kicking in a wall, yeah. Just as well the mortar was compromised by the damp.”
“Just as well the mortar above it wasn’t!” Rose shook her head, amazed at his foolhardiness. But he had got a result. “Where does it go?”
“Don’t know. Let’s find out.”
They carefully approached the dark aperture he’d made and looked in. Stone steps led downwards, underground.
“That’s the right direction, at least,” Crowley said.
Sharing a quick smile, they both pulled out pocket flashlights and flicked them on, then Crowley started down. Rose kept close behind.
The darkness was damp and cold, instantly different to the dreary but temperate day above. The steps went down about twenty feet, then leveled off. They both shined their flashlights around and saw only a large open basement, maybe fifty feet square, with brick walls and brick support columns every ten feet or so. The space was otherwise featureless, but for dirt and cobwebs.
“Aw, man,” Rose said, genuinely deflated. “For a moment there I let myself hope we’d found something.”
She watched as Crowley paced a circuit of the basement, then return to her, his lips pressed into a flat line. “Sorry. We tried.”
But now it was Rose’s turn to stare. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at an area of ground near the far wall.
The floor was packed dirt, hard and dry despite the overall dankness of the cellar. The dirt she looked at seemed to be slightly sunken, which wouldn’t have seemed so strange in and of itself, but it was sunken in an almost perfect square.
“I missed that. Hold my light,” Crowley said.
She took his flashlight and held one in each hand, trained on the area of ground, while Crowley grabbed a half brick from the bottom of the steps where he’d kicked the wall down. Using the corner of the brick he scraped at the dirt and quickly revealed a hollow, wooden sound. He redoubled his efforts and in no more than a few minutes had cleared a trapdoor. It was featureless, with no ring to hold and lift it, or any other means of shifting it.
“Maybe I can just jimmy it out?” Crowley mused. He took his universal tool out of his pocket and opened the small metal prong on one side, then began running it along the edge of the wood, clearing the gap between it and the packed earth.
“What the hell is that thing for?” Rose asked. “All multi-blade tools and penknives have one, that metal thing with a hole in it.”
Crowley paused, held it up. “This? It’s an awl. You can make holes with it, or put twine through the hole to pull it through leather for field repairs, that sort of thing.”
Rose’s eyebrows raised. “Well, you learn something new every day. My dad said he reckoned they were for removing stones and mud from horse’s hooves, but I always thought that was nonsense.”
Crowley looked at the tool for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, you could use it for that, I suppose.” He grinned and went back to work. Once he’d cleared it all away he began gently digging the tool under the edges. At first it appeared to be stuck tight, but then shifted just slightly.
“It’s loose but I can’t get a grip to lift it,” Crowley said, frustration evident.
“Wait there!” Rose ran back up the steps, remembering something she’d seen nearby. It took a moment to reorient herself, but she soon spotted it again. A flat piece of metal about eight inches long, with a hole in each end. It was a kind of bracket for connecting some part of the scaffolding, she assumed, perhaps dropped and lost during construction. She ran it back down to Crowley. “Try this.”
He grinned. “Perfect!”
It took a little more digging, but once he could get the metal strip in beside the wood he used it like a crowbar and the wooden cover levered up easily. He lifted it free and revealed a square hole about three feet to a side, and more steps leading down. Rose stood beside him and shined the flashlights down. The stairs were wooden and the walls below them stone. At the bottom they saw a pale gray flagstone floor.
They went down into the dark and shone their flashlights around, each making a noise of shock. But Rose also felt a rush of excitement. Metal mortuary tables filled a space almost as large again at the basement above. Around the sides were metal cabinets, bone saws and clamps and calipers lay forgotten, rusting and dust-covered.
“Well, this is clearly evidence of some kind of surgery and no doubt experimentation,” Crowley said.
“And it’s pretty secret. It would qualify as a lab, I think, don’t you?”
“I guess so. Certainly before it was abandoned, you can imagine there would have been a lot more stuff here. It’s well fitted out, just left to go to ruin now.”
Rose took her phone out and used the flash to record as much of the space as she could. They returned to the basement above and made a record of the access point, then retraced their steps again and photographed the spot where Crowley had kicked in the wall and the area around it. But the excitement of the discovery waned the more Rose thought about it. While they had certainly uncovered something, it had been left well alone for a long time. There were no fresh leads here.
“I think we need to look into Bannerman and his history a lot more,” Rose said. “What we learned in the car seems to be only most public of his activities.”
“Possibly,” Crowley said. “Or someone else used his space, perhaps without the knowledge of the Bannerman family. This was a storage facility, don’t forget. Not a home.”
“True. We’ve certainly got more research to–” Rose was interrupted by her phone coming to life in her hand, ringing
. The number was unknown. She frowned, but answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Rose Black?” a man with a broad Brooklyn accent asked.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“This is Sergeant Tony Palmetto from the New York City Police Department, ma’am. I’d like you to brace yourself as I have what may come as bad news to you.”
Rose’s stomach clenched. “What is it?”
“Would you know a woman by the name of Jasmine Richards?”
“Yes! Jazz. She’s my friend.”
Rose heard the police officer suck in a breath and swallow hard. “Ms. Black, I’m very sorry to inform you that your friend has died. She appears to be the victim of a robbery.”
“What? No, that’s not possible!”
Crowley moved to her and put his arm around her shoulders, his eyes creased in concern. Rose had the wherewithal to pull the phone from her ear and tap it onto speaker.
“I’m afraid it’s true, Ms. Black. Miss Jasmine Richards was found in her apartment early this afternoon and there’s evidence she disturbed a robbery in progress. We’re ringing you as she had a slip of paper with your name and number on it in her back pocket, so we wanted to know why that might be. We’re following up any leads we find I’m very sorry, Ms. Black. Would you be able to come to the station and help us with our enquiries?”
Rose felt as if a dagger of ice had been plunged into her heart. She shared a look with Crowley, aware that tears were rolling over her cheeks. “Yes, of course.”
The Sergeant gave her an address, apologized again for the imparting such terrible news over the telephone, thanked her, and hung up.
“Rose, I’m so sorry!” Crowley said, gathering her into a hug.
She cried into his chest for a moment, her mind a whirlwind. “I’m sure Matthew Price has something to do with this,” she said, before second-guessing the wisdom of the statement.
Crowley gently pushed her back, looked into her eyes. “Come on, now. Why? What possible reason could there be for that?”
“Because I asked her to look into him. Perhaps I caused this! Maybe she got too close and poked a hornet’s nest.”
“He’s just an old man, into pharmaceuticals, for goodness sake.”
Rose realized anger was battling inside her with grief, a dangerous combination, but she couldn’t hold her tongue. “You never liked Jazz from the outset, anyway, Jake! I think you’re threatened by her.”
Crowley’s mouth fell open and his eyes darkened for a moment, then she saw him mentally check himself. He pulled back some kind of control. “You know what? I was a little threatened. I’m only human, I guess. But that’s not why I’m questioning your accusing of Price.”
She opened her mouth to berate him further, but he held up a hand to forestall her, then placed his palm on her cheek. “But! Your friend has just died and that’s awful. And who knows, maybe you’re onto something and I can’t see it. I’ve been wrong about stuff often enough before. Let’s get back to the city, and I promise to keep an open mind.”
Chapter 19
Rose was grateful Crowley had allowed her to have suspicions. And she harbored them still. But Jake was a good man and she was grateful for his support. She needed it. They had spent the majority of the late afternoon at the police department answering questions, but had really had no answers to give. Driving back from the Bannerman Island they had discussed what information they might give out. Crowley had cautioned against letting on too much about the crypt they’d found or the locations they’d been to without permission. Better to avoid any scrutiny on themselves, or possibly besmirch Jazz’s memory. While he was happy to entertain the possibility that Jazz may have run afoul of Price, she was equally likely to have run afoul of any number of other adversaries. Given her profession, perhaps danger was never that far away. Crowley insisted it was something they could check into themselves, and he promised they would do that. If they uncovered anything, they would tip the police off somehow afterwards. Rose thought maybe his caution was right.
So they had told the Sergeant only the most superficial details. They were on vacation in New York City, enjoying the sights, visiting Crowley’s great aunt. Jazz and Rose were old friends and they had caught up a couple of times and had every intention of doing so again before Rose returned to England. That’s probably why Jazz was holding her number, Rose told the officer. Maybe she was about to call and plan their next catch up. Rose admitted she had been trying to reach her friend for the last couple of days and always going through to voicemail. She also told the sergeant that Jazz was usually good at returning online messages, but that she’d been unusually quiet on that front as well over the previous 48 hours or so. Rose put it down to Jazz being busy with work. The police seemed happy enough with all that.
“Do you think Jazz was planning to call you to catch up?” Crowley asked, as they walked back to their hotel.
“Maybe. Or call and tell me some juicy information about Price or the crypt or something else,” Rose said, her voice husky with emotion.
“Possibly,” he allowed.
“Juicy enough to get her killed maybe.” Rose swallowed, refusing to let tears flow again. For now she wanted to maintain her rage at the injustice of it all. There would be time enough for grief later.
Crowley had asked a few probing questions of the Sergeant, about what had been stolen, had the door been forced or did it look like Jazz had opened it to let someone in, maybe someone she knew. Sergeant Palmetto had been friendly, but his eyes narrowed at Crowley’s questions and Jake wisely clammed up. It had been smart to try for some details, but pushing too far would only seem suspicious coming from a couple of English tourists. The officer had finally warned them off, punctuating it with a muttered comment. She’d caught “civilians” and “crime shows are bullshit.” Rose thought maybe that was true, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t more to this crime than met the eye. It was New York, so she had to accept it was possible Jazz had fallen foul of violent burglars, but she wouldn’t trust that possibility until every other avenue of enquiry had been exhausted. Now who sounds like they watch too many crime shows on TV, she thought wryly.
Sitting over breakfast the following morning, after a somewhat restless night, Rose was cranky and over-tired. The loss of Jazz was a hole inside her that was equal parts grief and guilt. What if it did have something to do with Jazz doing research into Price? Would that make Rose almost directly responsible for her friend’s death? She voiced her concerns to Crowley.
“It could have had something to do with her digging into the stuff about the bodies in the crypt too,” Crowley said. “Maybe we should head back there and see what’s happening. Or it could be any number of other stories she may have been working on that we don’t know about.”
“So you think it is suspicious then?”
He shrugged, sipped coffee. “I don’t know. It’s entirely possible that it’s as simple as a botched robbery like the police think. Horribly mundane, but if we take an Occam’s Razor point of view–”
While that echoed Rose’s own thoughts, she still didn’t want to accept it. “If someone deliberately killed her, they would certainly make it look like a botched robbery.”
“They would,” he agreed. “If there is something more suspicious about this, it makes sense to put the police off like that.”
Rose scrolled through the news on her phone, partly looking for any mention of Jazz’s murder. Nothing yet. Maybe in a city this size, a bungled robbery and a dead reporter didn’t make the news cycle. Then the word Poe caught her eye and she scrolled back.
“Huh,” she said, skim-reading the article. “You remember that Poe house we visited when we were first here?”
“Yeah, of course. Lame as it was, it’s hard to forget.”
“It got broken into last night apparently. Fair bit of damage and a bunch of exhibits stolen. They’re asking for people to come forward if they know anything or might have seen anything.”
When Crowley
didn’t answer, Rose looked up and had a moment of shock at his pale face. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“What is it?”
Crowley shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief. “Can’t be.”
“What, Jake?”
“When I went to see Price yesterday we got to talking about books. He had an impressive library, lots of rare and valuable stuff. He has a first edition of Lord of the Flies, signed by Golding. It was amazing. More than that, he has this one book, a first edition of The Great Gatsby, in mint condition that he really treasures. I looked it up afterwards and it’s worth nearly two-hundred-thousand bucks.”
“Holy hell!”
“I know, right? That particular copy has quite a romantic story attached too, I’ll tell you about it later. Anyway, looking at this stuff we got onto the subject of what our holy grail book might be. You know, the book we’d love to own more than any other. And Price said he’d dearly love to have Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque Journal. It’s a one-off, obviously, apparently the journal Poe used when he wrote The Masque of the Red Death. Price said it contains Poe’s original ideas, research notes, early drafts of the story, and random free-form thoughts. I thought that was a strange turn of phrase at the time, random freeform thoughts. But Price was quite wistful about it. Anyway–”
“You told him about the Poe house,” Rose interrupted, realizing where this was going. “And the old journal they’d recently turned up.”
Crowley nodded. “I did.”
“And so Price broke in and stole it!”
“Well, we don’t know that...”
Rose gave him one of her sternest stares and he had the decency to look away from her. “Come on, Jake. It’s too much to be all coincidence, surely. Something is going on here and I think it’s all connected. Price and the break-in at the Poe house, the journal, Jazz’s murder. Even the crypt, the mass burials, and the bodies, the crazy trepanning experiments. It’s all connected somehow, I can feel it!”
Crowley frowned. “I don’t know. I grant you there’s a lot of suspicious stuff going on here but you’re drawing a long bow.”