The Heir to Evercrest Hall

by Andrea M. Theobald

  Without further thought, I made my careful descent into the cavity, climbing down as if it were a ladder, to discover I was in a tunnel set deep within the ground. In the distance there was a small glimmer of light coming from the direction of a gagging stench of rotten carrion that forced me to raise my sleeve to my nose.

  “Mr. Davenport! Are you there?”

  No reply.

  I walked toward the glow where there was an outline of a bag and wondered if someone had deposited it there before hiding farther beyond. With every step closer, the bag transformed before my eyes, its definition becoming much clearer. I ignored the pain in my ankle and ran.

  “Rufus!”

  I would have loved for the dog to have looked up at me with a growl, never mind the monetary incentive offered for finding him by his mistress. Sadly, I knew he would never stir again.

  A dark substance had accumulated in a pool about the animal’s head where nearby the lantern flickered away benignly. I lay my hand on Rufus’ small form and felt warmth, indicating to me that his death had been recent, maybe a matter of minutes ago. Suddenly, sick dread arose in me. I looked along toward the darkness of the tunnel, where the dog’s cruel killer might still be lurking. I stood, keeping alert just in case I was next to meet the same brutal fate.

  “Mister Davenport, it is me. Please talk.” I waited nervously for a reply. Again I called out, this time adding my name. It was only a matter of seconds before I did get a response. I looked over my shoulder toward the sound of stone grinding across stone, and to my horror the steps had fallen into shadow.

  I let out a cry. I groped along the walls in a blind frenzy unable to prevent myself from crashing forward as my boot clipped the bottom step. Desperately, I climbed upward and tried to push against the slab, at the same time yelling at the person to let me out. The sound above was of stones being assembled upon top of one another, meaning only one thing—the person was deliberately entombing me down there!

  My throat became hoarse from screaming. The edges and palms of both hands throbbed from where I had banged away, even after having heard the boot steps walking away to the upbeat rhythm of a whistling melody.

  What was I to do? Looking behind, at the lantern flickering beside the dead dog, I knew this had to be the tunnel that Davenport spoke of; the one his ancestor had used as an escape route during the enemy’s siege. Yet I could not understand why the man would pile rocks on the slab if he knew the tunnel came out at the main house. Unless, the trapper wasn’t Davenport, but someone else who was set on my demise. I felt strangely comforted by this change in notion.

  In one particular place, water dripped slowly from the ceiling. If I were trapped in there for time indefinite, at least I had water to drink no matter how slight. The question that worried me was, what about when I was reduced to hunger pangs? It didn’t help that I had not eaten breakfast or lunch today, and the ghastly suggestion that was on offer, the most detestable thing to consider passing between my lips, was a food choice I preferred to keep at the back of my mind.

  I advanced farther into the unknown, unable to run for fear of disturbing the delicate lantern flame in my hand, when the light shone on the shriveled-up form of what appeared to be a rabbit; its decomposition having progressed beyond what caused the main smell up ahead. In the meantime, my thoughts raged. Who else would be out to get me? Was it someone wanting revenge for throwing stones at them? Tall-and-Lanky had left Evercrest behind, so it couldn’t be him, unless there was a small chance he had secretly returned; otherwise, only two of my victims remained—the handsome Wilson-Goldsmith, and the podgy Lord McKenzie.

  The tunnel was like a large rabbit warren; the limit of my lantern’s yield meant that the looming darkness seemed to go on forever. Somewhere, the smell of death was near; however, my sense of smell had numbed to its initial sickly effect. Then there it was, literally like a ray of hope, a faint light up ahead. I briskly walked toward it, nearly forgetting the pain in my ankle. Sadly, as I drew near, I realized it was the hole where my foot had fallen through previously; the evidence being the fresh remnants of earth and grass lying on the floor at my feet. At least that gave me a focal point, meaning my estimate was that I was halfway to the main house. The only problem was now I was faced with a bigger challenge, and that was an obstruction of earth completely sealing off the tunnel.

  The painful reality of my predicament felt worse than the combination of his abandonment many years ago, and his womanizing ways. He had pretended to be my friend in the garden, only to all along desire for my cruel, torturous end. I recalled how Davenport and I had turned back the other day because he had said, with pretending concern, that the ground looked unstable. He would have returned later to investigate the tunnel, knowing full well that when he piled the stones upon the slab, it would be impossible for me to escape. He knew by barring people entry into this part of the grounds by putting a sign up in front of the shrubbery, I’d not be discovered until—if someone might happen to find me—I was just like Rufus the dog. I slumped hard onto my knees and sobbed into a pathetic heap.

  Why would he want to bury me alive? Was it because he had overheard what Charlotte had told me about him; about his madness without the need to measure in words that he had committed incest? How appropriate for him to have seen me searching for the dog in advance. He would have had time to enter the tunnel, kill little Rufus, and exit; creating a sound lure, which he knew, because of my obviously curious and annoying nature, would draw me right into his cunning setup.

  I felt sick at how his face had lit up with euphoria while describing his ancestor’s military tactics using this very burrow to enact bloody revenge. Like some sick thrill, the hunter, having beguiled and caught his prey, was torturing it for inflicting on his bare flesh stony projectiles.

  The lantern fluttered in preparation for its passing. I looked at the obstruction before me. Strangely there was castle rubble stacked from floor level to a height of two feet, and equally strange was that there had not been any indication of this same material beforehand on the tunnel’s floor. Then something glistened from the pile. I got up and held the lantern close to where the light had emitted from. Painstakingly, I removed the broken masonry, aware that at any given moment a careless move could trigger an avalanche of dirt over top me. I continued in this way until the red light glowed to life. When I saw what it was attached to, I recoiled back in terror.

  As if the past had come back to haunt me, staring back at me was the ruby inside the legs of a golden beetle, still joined to the withering finger of its owner. Goosebumps swept over my entire body at the cringing thought that this hand belonged to the man I knew was my father; the very hand that had snuffed out my mother’s final breath. What was his name? How did he come to be on the Davenport’s estate, or rather, how did he come to be lying there beneath?

  The lantern light fluttered again. I prayed it would not go out, and as if my maker listened to me from high above, the flame steadied. In what little time I had of visibility, I observed the ring and saw that the ruby and gold was lackluster with filth, despite the hand itself not being dirty. I looked about at the walls in hopeless desperation, but when I studied the ceiling, the unintelligible answer was there for me to see in the form of strange symbols, which seemed to dance out at me from high.

  I stood, holding the lantern above my head to inspect the strange string of images. I wondered if the code writer had written the answer to why he was now lying there. Why not in English? Whoever had buried this man alive had at least given him the dignity of a burial. Strangely, the dirt had collapsed overtop of the stones. Was it coincidence?

  Making my way back to the tunnel’s beginning, it was just before the steps when the lantern flame finally vanished. The sound of the distant tapping water drip spoke to me sparingly, and the light that came through the ceiling of the tunnel was like the eye of the outside world. It would have been futile yelling up at the aperture until my voice was spent, since the grounds were blocked
off from entry to all. At least, by sitting at the step, I was distancing myself from the putrid smell; and by resorting to prayer, I hoped God would send me someone to release me from this tomb. Unfortunately, as the eye of the outside world began to fade, a deep chill entered my body, followed by the sound of the distant water drip chattering frivolously.

  Water trickled through the gaps of the slab at a great rate. To keep from getting my feet even more soaked, I huddled up on a mound of ancient dirt a little way off in the hope of sleep. But after many hours, when I did manage to drift off, I dreamed a most disturbing dream. I fled through the oak woods from some terror in the midst of the night. Appearing right in front of me, and before the secret hole in the wall, was Jenny. She was surrounded by light that made her hair golden like the scarab beetle’s legs, and in her arms she cradled little Simeon. I tried to call out to her for help, but she refused to hear me, for she was too busy looking dreamily down at the baby smiling up at her.

  I awoke shivering. I saw that the dull light of dawn pressed through the hole my foot had made, the eye of the world as I called it. Craving for water, I followed the dripping sound, managing to swallow enough mud-tasting liquid to take away the parchedness in my throat. Suddenly, there was the sound of barking. I madly sprinted back to the tunnel’s beginning. I screamed for help, not caring that my boot once again smashed into the first step and made me fall forward. Now that the barking above had become manic, I knew with great relief that this place would no longer become my crypt. To prove it, there was the sound of stones being hurriedly moved before the slab was pushed aside in one almighty shove.

  Lantern light made silhouettes of several people above. It was Davenport’s voice crying out my name, as I clamored up the steps, only to be pulled upward and taken tightly into his arms. “Thank heavens I found you!”

  The thoughts that had run through my mind in the tunnel spurred me to push him away enough to give my arm leverage to raise my hand and strike his icy cold cheeks, much to the horror of his four companions.

  “You tried to kill me!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of hurting you!” cried Davenport.

  “That’s what you say now in front of all your workers, but I know the truth. You are a murderer!” Besides other things!

  Davenport’s deeply shadowed eyes reflected hurt. It was the voice beside him that stole my attention. “Young lass, you have had a rough time, best you come back to mine and have a nice hot brew.”

  I looked at the elderly worker. He had a pleasant, well-weathered face with white sideburns. He removed his heavy coat, to the protest of Davenport who removed his coat also, and placed it tenderly about my shoulders. It was the offer of his fatherly arms that made me fall in between them, where I buried my face into his chest and sobbed.

  “Now, now, me lass, you are safe now. Let’s go and have that cuppa I promised ya.”

  I pulled away and looked accusingly across at Davenport. “There is a dead man down there.” Davenport’s eyes widened with surprise, but that could have been an act for all I cared. I looked back at the elderly man. “If you go down there, you will see strange writing on the ceiling above, near where he is buried.”

  “You stay here with Miss Smithers,” Davenport commanded two of the workers, “and you,” he pointed to the third worker, “come in with me and Jackson.” Davenport immediately descended into the tunnel.

  When the three returned, all looked grim. Jackson cradled little Rufus in his arms.

  Davenport said to the two men, who had remained with me, “Don’t tell anyone we have found Miss Smithers. In the meantime, pretend to search the other side of the estate.” The workers both nodded. Davenport turned to the third worker. “Saddle up a horse and fetch the police immediately. Lead them here via the lane. Whatever you do, don’t let anybody know what you are doing, or what has been discovered, is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, touching his forelock before running off.

  Davenport looked wretchedly down at me, his eyes were bloodshot. “We were up all night in search of you. It was Charlotte who alerted me to your disappearance at nightfall. She said you had gone to visit your aunt for the afternoon, but you had not returned.”

  “That is a lie!” I yelled.

  “Mr. Davenport is speaking the truth,” Jackson said. “I heard it from that woman’s lips.”

  “No, I meant she lied!” I looked at Davenport, aware of Jackson’s less than admiral tone for the mistress. “She came into the nursery upset, saying you had been horrid to her.”

  “I did speak harshly with her, because…” He looked ashamedly away from me.

  “Well, she had me believing you’d lost your marbles, that you had seized her dog.” This time Davenport frowned and shook his head repeatedly. I gave him no time to respond. “She said she saw you walking in the direction of the castle ruins. I told her I would go and find you, so I could try to reason with you to give her dog back.” I looked at Jackson, who had to be no other than Millie’s father, and looked at the small dog lying stiff like a board in his arms. “But it was all a lie!”

  “She was responsible for trapping you down there,” said Davenport, who visibly trembled as he stared down at the hole.

  “How could she, she was up in the nursery, looking after your baby, and, anyway, I had gained much ground before she could have reached the castle. I most certainly would have seen her coming when I climbed up the tower.” I realized I had slipped the big secret about the baby’s paternity. I looked at Millie’s father, but he didn’t appear surprised.

  “Jackson is like family to me,” said Davenport, as if he could read my mind. “He knows all about the baby, and the lies that Charlotte has been feeding you about the baby being mine.”

  I cried, “It’s not yours?” I felt a huge weight suddenly leave me.

  “My sister’s baby belongs to another man. I only pretended to be the baby’s father to protect her reputation. I did not count on anyone finding out that it was she who had given birth. Why I believe Charlotte was planning to kill you, because you exposed her deceit when her letter fell into my hands.”

  “But she loved Rufus!”

  “Did you not see the body of her other little dog?” Davenport asked. “She used the same ploy, hoping it would work a second time.”

  “What do you mean a second time?”

  “My uncle wrote that his wife killed him after he had gone in search of her dog.”

  I stared incredulously at Davenport. I looked for support from Jackson, who looked down at the dead dog, while one of his hounds looked up at him with the same sorrowful eyes.

  Davenport explained, “The symbols you saw on the ceiling are ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. When my uncle was abroad, he and I would write to each other in this secret code. He wrote a message, knowing that when I discovered it, it would point the finger to his wife.”

  A thought suddenly overrode the chill in my body—the man who killed my mother was my father, which meant my father was the man lying down in the tunnel wearing that ghastly scarab ring. Equally shocking was there I was staring at Albert Davenport, a man who I had been deeply in love with up to a few weeks ago. Now I saw him through the eyes of a kinswoman, a cousin, which in turn led to the explanation why India and I looked very much similar. She and I shared some type of Davenport trait that gave way to dark features.

  “And all this time, everyone thought he was on an archaeological dig,” I exclaimed, remembering the time I had hidden behind the gallery curtain and overheard Charlotte discussing her husband’s absence with the physician.

  “That was what Charlotte wanted us all to believe, and we all fell for it.”

  “What about the collapsed earth?” I asked.

  “She most likely used dynamite to cover up her crime. Her ancestors got rich through dealings with Asia, importing gunpowder into England. Her grandfather often took her with him when she was a young girl, and they would join my grandfather and practice their unusual
hobby of blowing up things. Why this castle wasn’t just a victim of time or medieval slighting.”

  I looked about at the ruins. Indeed, madness did prevail in this family! “So all along, he was dead, all along she pretended that he was away, but why? Why would she kill her husband?”

  Davenport looked away from my stare. “Let us go to Jackson’s place first, Miss Smithers. You will be safer there.”

  “Don’t try avoiding my question. You know the reason. Tell me now!”

  “I promise to tell you, but first we have to hide you away from Charlotte.”

  “He is right, lass,” said Jackson. “Why you ought to stay over at the cottage, until this all blows over.” It was hard to disagree with Millie’s father; he used a gentle tone that was an acquired skill he would have used over years with hounds to get the response he wanted.

  Davenport indicated with his hand for Jackson to step aside. They whispered back and forth, but their lips were not facing me. Jackson nodded frequently, and then Davenport walked to me. “I promise I shall return to you and explain what has happened. Jackson’s wife, who has always been like a mother to me, will take especially good care of you.” To my surprise Davenport pulled me tightly into his arms and kissed me on the lips before hastily departing in the direction of Clearwater Manor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jackson’s wife, Katy, was a bigger version of Millie, with salt and pepper hair done up in a careless bun. Jackson could not stick around, and as the two casually jested with each other, and he kissed her on her plump cheek, it was with them that I saw a love that I longed to have for myself one day. Not once did Katy enquire about how I came to be the subject of a search party. She kept me seated by the fireplace, and piled me with hot stew and cups of tea. She blanketed me like an orphan lamb until I slipped into a deep sleep. It was Millie’s voice that woke me. I whirled about the armchair to see her talking to her mother in tears. Millie’s mother placed her forefinger against her lips, but it was too late, I was wide awake when Millie uttered, “Little Simeon has disappeared!”