The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1)

by Jackson, Melanie

  “What the.…” But my brain could only regurgitate the suggestion of a ghost in the basement, so I stopped asking it questions.

  Instead I sat down on the oaken settle across the room and waited for the sun to come up. Kelvin came and lay beside me, staring fixedly at the bolted door.

  An hour later, fortified with a cup of tea and dressed in Grandma’s dungarees, I went back to the basement door. It did not surprise me that Kelvin was still waiting there, still staring.

  Anger had mostly replaced fear, but it took courage to pull back the bolt and open the door on the damp darkness. I had two flashlights with me. One I would hang as a lantern and the other I would use as it had been intended. Night was over and the sun was up. Everything would be fine.

  The basement was, as ever, empty of obvious life—no new cobwebs, no mouse droppings, nothing to suggest that Kelvin and I were not utterly alone. There was, however, a scent clutching at the now still air and occasionally tweaking my nose. It wasn’t the wholesome smell of the ocean either. It smelled vaguely like a distillery I had visited in Scotland on one of those seven countries in seven days tours I had taken right after college.

  It was probably unattractive, but I sniffed and sniffed, imitating a bloodhound. My nose led me to the locked cupboard and I knelt down and inhaled at the crack. That was where the smell came from. No longer in the mood to hunt for keys or secret latches, I went and got a crowbar. I used it forcefully on the heavy panel, irritation lending me strength. The door popped open with a screech and something heavy hit the floor. The wobbling light showed me the latching mechanism on the inside was intact, but the screws had rusted and popped free of the wood when I pried it open. Even metal could be defeated by the damp salt air.

  Exhaling, I turned the flashlight into the cupboard and immediately spotted a gap in the back wall. It was only a little surprising to find a sliding panel and behind that a short stair and then a downward sloping tunnel which I could barely see while leaning into the closet. The chisel marks on the stone walls and the wooden steps showed me the tunnel was manmade, or at least man-modified. I crouched again and shone my light around a bit, pretending to examine the footprints on the steps while considering what to do next.

  One kind of woman—a smarter or more timid or less annoyed one—might close the door, wedge a chair against it, and go call Harris or the police.

  Except, was that smart? Harris had known my great-grandfather very well. Was he truly ignorant of the tunnel? Or had he failed to mention it because it could give me a distaste of Wendover House?

  Had he failed to mention it because he was using it for some reason, a reason he didn’t want me to know anything about?

  And what could I say to Bryson or Everett Sands if I called? Having a tunnel in one’s basement was not a police matter. Not unless someone was using it and I had no proof of that. Not yet.

  Anyway, it was probably shutting the barn door after the horse was gone. Whoever had been here was probably long gone. There had been days—or at least nights—for them to learn that a new person was in the house and that I was being bothered enough by noises in the basement to put a lock on the door and ask questions about a sea cave.

  “Oh, what the hell.”

  I stepped through the cupboard. It was a relief to find Kelvin padding along beside me in a most relaxed manner.

  “Reow,” he said encouragingly, happy that I had finally gotten the message.

  Fear and irritation went away. I had stepped through the looking glass and into history. I had a hidden tunnel in my basement! This was great! I didn’t know anyone who had a hidden tunnel.

  The smell of booze was strong in the air, though it grew weaker as I got closer to the mouth of the small cave which I also had expected to find. About ten feet in from the opening there was a sort of winch with a broken cable bolted to the slanting floor. The end had frayed, parting the metal strands. The break looked recent. There was rust on the rest of the cable but the ends were still shiny.

  What was a surprise were the half dozen barrels still in the cave, one of which was broken open. It was the contents which were perfuming the restless breeze that breathed in and out with the noisy waves, splashing at the cave’s narrow mouth as they did their best to get inside. The other barrels were set up on ledges above the water line. The watermarks showed that the cave did not submerge completely at high tide. That there were still puddles of booze left meant someone had visited me last night after the tide had turned. That was doubtless what had roused the cat.

  “Kelvin, don’t drink that!” I scolded as the cat sniffed at a golden puddle, but my brain was busy trying to assimilate what it was seeing.

  Someone was using my cave to hide barrels of liquor. Surely that meant smuggling. Why else risk trespassing and hiding the casks in so inconvenient a place? And this enterprise wasn’t anything recent either. This cave had been here for a long time, long enough for certain barnacles and plants to attach themselves to the walls. It might even be the very cave used by the smuggler who had married my ancestress.

  Was this why Grandma had left? Because her father was smuggling booze—and who knew what else—into the country? Had he expected her to do the same? Surely there was some record of this cave in some archive, somewhere.

  I needed a computer with internet access and went to see if Ben had one.

  “Come on Kelvin. We’ll come back later.”

  * * *

  “I can do you one better, if it’s information on whisky smuggling that you want,” Ben said enthusiastically when I explained my desire for a computer, though not about the sea cave and its booty. I had decided to hold that back for the time being. “As I told you, I’ve been doing research on smuggling and have pretty much read everything in the historical society archives. Uh—you don’t mind a lecture? It would be faster than having you read my notes.”

  “Please feel free to core dump. Tell me all about bootlegging.”

  “You know not what you ask,” he said with a grin that was positively boyish. “In the old days, rum-running—bootlegging—was about breaking the laws of prohibition in the U.S. And it still is, at least in as much as certain types of alcohol are still prohibited from legitimate trade, though alcohol consumption is allowed in most places. Then, as now, one of the main places where alcohol was smuggled from was Canada.”

  I nodded.

  “I have a theory that these islands were used as a kind of base of operations because of their territory being in dispute. In fact, after I read about your piratical ancestor I decided to buy the house here. It’s a great place for writing undisturbed.” He cleared his throat and waited. I couldn’t think what to say but nodded encouragingly.

  “I can see that.”

  “Okay. As a for instance, small amounts of Canadian whisky could be legally brought into the coast guard and menial staff who manned the lighthouse. And once the ship was here, other cargo could be conveniently unloaded under the cover of night.”

  Ben gestured me into a chair beside his desk. It was a bit tatty but very comfortable.

  “These rum-runners were an ingenious bunch. There was one smuggler who installed fish pens in the bottom of his ship to carry as much liquor as possible. He would put in at Goose Haven, making a legitimate delivery of fish, but then would leave a huge shipment somewhere on the islands to be picked up by land-smugglers when they came to buy fish or clams or whatever. They probably picked rainy nights so there would be fewer witnesses. A little rain wouldn’t deter these guys.” I nodded again. “Land-runners from the mainland would then come and retrieve supplies at the port and smuggle them deeper into the United States. I haven’t figured out who was behind it—the money guys, I mean. But I can make some guesses.”

  He was the most animated I had ever seen him.

  “Do you think that could be going on today?” I asked. “I mean, prohibition is over, so why take the risk?”

  “I know it’s going on today, though cigarettes and marijuana are th
e bigger illegal imports.”

  “Why? I mean why smuggle booze?” I insisted, not wanting to get off topic. “Is there still money in it?”

  “Probably. Where there is demand there will be supply.”

  “But is there demand?”

  “Of course. Canadian whisky is an indigenous product to Canada that, while satisfying all the laws of Canadian manufacture, does not meet U.S. standards for rye whiskey.” I must have looked blank because he went on more slowly. “It is a common misconception that Canadian whiskies are primarily made using rye. Mostly they are made with corn. In their defense, they are all aged at least three years. There is no requirement for aging in the U.S., so one can argue about which is the better product. But that is an aesthetic rather than a legal distinction.”

  “Wait. Canadian rye whisky isn’t made with rye—it’s made with corn? And this is considered bad?”

  “Mostly correct. The use of rye grain is not dictated by law in Canada, and whisky products of all grain types are often generically referred to as ‘rye whisky.’ The U.S. objects to this designation as misleading however and has strict laws about how much rye must be used in a blended whiskey.”

  “Okay. I suppose it really makes a difference in the flavor and people get to liking a particular kind of drink?” I thought of friends who liked Coke but wouldn’t touch Pepsi.

  “Yes. And the cost varies, of course, but Canadian whisky is usually cheaper than its American counterpart. Let me demonstrate the differences. That’s the best way to understand.” Ben went to a cupboard and got out four short glasses. This was followed by four bottles of varying shape and color. “I am going to pour you some whiskies. One is Canadian, one is a United States rye whiskey, one is Scottish, and one is Irish whiskey—that is spelled with an e-y, by the way. The Irish and Scottish whiskies taste substantially different. They are the parent drink though, so one should know about them.”

  I tried not to grimace. I was ignorant about whisky because I didn’t like it at all, but I didn’t want to stifle Ben’s ever-growing enthusiasm and steady flow of information.

  “The Irish whiskey first,” he said handing me a glass with a very small amount in the bottom. Obviously he was serious about this being a taste and nothing more. “This is a single malt whiskey and has been distilled three times. It’s very smooth.”

  I sniffed it. Whiskey, kind of like what I had smelled in the tunnel. I forced myself to take a sip and was pleasantly surprised. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t feel as though my teeth had been etched with acid.

  “Not bad,” I said and got an approving smile.

  “Now for a Scottish whisky. Again, it is a single malt. Notice the peat. There is almost a flavor of smoke. It’s my favorite,” he confessed. “Aged in oak barrels.”

  The taste was very different, not as sweet and I didn’t like it at all. It was like sucking ashes.

  “I can taste the difference,” I said diplomatically, setting the glass on the desk.

  “Now, the American. This won’t have the smoky flavor because fire wasn’t used on the rye and wheat.”

  “It’s sweeter,” I said after I had dipped my numbed tongue in it. “I like it better.” But not much.

  Ben nodded. “It’s probably more what you are used to. Now try the Canadian. This is a whisky intended for a Canadian market. It would not be imported into the U.S.”

  I accepted the last glass, glad we had reached the end of the bottles. I was beginning to feel a little woozy. Hard liquor has never been my friend and a very little of it went a long way.

  “It’s lighter,” he said. “Fewer layers of flavors. Simple.”

  “Almost fruity,” I agreed. “I like this best of all.”

  “So do a lot of Americans,” he said wryly, no doubt decrying our unsophisticated palates.

  “And you said this one isn’t imported into the U.S.?”

  “Not legally. And it is less expensive than other brands. A lot less expensive, especially in bulk.”

  “Well, I guess I see why someone might smuggle it in.”

  “Yes. And why they would put it in new bottles before serving it in pubs and inns and chowder houses.”

  Hearing a new note in his voice, I looked up at Ben.

  “Like Mike’s Chowder House or the Great Goose Public Inn?” I asked.

  “Exactly like that.”

  “Oh.” I tried to think, but the whisky was getting in the way. “Well, this is food for thought.” I made another stab at making the brain cells function but it was hard going. I was beginning to feel very sleepy. “Do Bryson and Everett know about this?”

  “Oh, I should think so. They both drink it regularly.”

  “Hm.”

  “Do you still want to use my computer? You’re welcome.”

  “No thanks, at least not right now. I think what I need is a nap. I’m not used to drinking.”

  Ben was beginning to smile again.

  “Can you get home by yourself?”

  “Please. There is only one path. If I go the wrong way I’ll fall into the ocean and that will tell me to stop.”

  “Nevertheless, I will walk you home. It’s time to stretch my legs anyway.” He offered me a hand and pulled me to my feet. I hated to admit that the help was welcome. Booze and a lack of sleep were a bad combination.

  “So, is your new book about smuggling?”

  He hesitated and then seemed to give a mental shrug.

  “Yes, only not about smuggling booze. In my story the bad guys are trafficking in humans.”

  “Oh. That’s bad. I’d rather have booze. I mean, in real life. Less tragedy that way.”

  “True, but far less literary drama,” he answered, grinning as he opened the door. “Someday I would like to write a historical novel about rum-runners.”

  We stepped out and were greeted with a gust of wind and a view of gathering clouds.

  “More rain?” I asked the sky. “This is summer, for heavensake. Can’t we have one clear night?”

  “It’s summer but it’s also Little Goose. I am surprised the whole island isn’t lost to moss and mildew.”

  “I will begin to mildew if my clothes don’t dry before it starts raining.”

  Chapter 10

  I had a short nap. The afternoon was dreary when I woke and I felt no inclination to spend it cleaning the cellar, though I did make sure the cupboard door was secured with a nail before going back upstairs for the night.

  My brain was busy chewing on the morning’s discovery. I asked myself why I hadn’t told Ben about the tunnel and the booze, but couldn’t come up with an answer. Except that he seemed to know a lot about smuggling, had had ample time to get to know my great-grandfather, and might still be involved with the smugglers.

  Not that he would be doing this full time, I assured myself. Probably it would just be research for a book, or something, but I didn’t want the smugglers to be made aware that I had found their tunnel and the rest of their stash. Ben wouldn’t hurt me—I was pretty sure—but the fact remained that smuggling is illegal and someone could end up in jail if this went public. Criminals tended not to like this. It seemed far safer to let them finish removing their goods in peace and to leave them in ignorance of the fact that I was on to their illegal import business.

  And perhaps once the smugglers were gone, the tunnel’s existence could be made remunerative in some way or another. After all, I was a reporter. Why couldn’t I go freelance with the story of modern smuggling? I would bring my phone down in the morning and take a picture of the barrels. Surely someone somewhere would be interested enough to pay for this.

  Or was exposing this story too dangerous? Too … rude? Or at least insulting to local custom?

  I shook my head and made some tea.

  Maybe I should have been more alarmed about crimes being committed by a person or persons unknown, but I just couldn’t get as worked up over whisky as I would cocaine or Ben’s hopefully mythical slave-trading. Most of my annoyance—now
that I knew the causes of the night disturbances were manmade—was that I had had so many anxious, sleepless nights at the smuggler’s hands.

  Not that disturbing me had been intentional. Far from it. They were clearing out and I would be left in peace hereafter.

  Or would I? If I did nothing, would they begin using the cave again the next time they had a shipment that needed storing? If they did, was that bad? What if they decided to bribe me into cooperation—offered a sort of rental agreement? It could be worth a lot of money. Would I take it? Involve myself in something illegal? I tried to imagine what my grandmother would do in my situation.

  It was gloomy to contemplate, but looking at things realistically, my life was about half over. And what did I have to show for it? Until Kelvin had died and left me his home I had had a broken-down business and an apartment I was about to lose because it was being converted to condominiums.

  I had no family, no sense even of what my family had been. I had been feeling rootless and discontent. I didn’t have any real anchors in the community I’d moved back to when I inherited the newspaper because Grandma Mac and my parents had not been “joiners.” There were no long-standing civic connections, no social clubs, not even close friends left from childhood, and only the two employees that came with Grandma Mac’s business.

  But now? Well, I still had no family, but I had a pre-existing place in the community if I chose to assume it. No one would question my past. I was the Wendover heir and all I had to do was live in this house. And it was a beautiful home. I had enough money to sleep nights without worry—once the smugglers were gone. I had a personable neighbor with shared interests, a chance at friends. And I had a cat who needed me.

  Weighed against that was the knowledge that my property was being used for something illegal—something my grandmother had probably hated enough to run away from. And the trespassers abusing my hospitality were probably people I knew.

  Like my personable neighbor, or my attorney.