by Andrew Lane
The problem was that he had already searched the library with a view to finding secret passages. Admittedly, he’d done that before Mycroft had been attacked, but he hadn’t found anything. What was the point of searching again?
He wondered whether it was worth him pacing out the length and width of the library inside and then pacing out the same space outside, looking for discrepancies, but that would take a lot of time and be prone to small errors. People would also wonder what he was doing. The thought of trying to trace any secret passages from outside gave rise to a realization, however – a secret passage had to have two ends. One end would be in the library, obviously, but the other end would have to be somewhere else in the castle. Maybe, if he looked in all the likely places, he could trace where the other end came out.
Enthused by the idea, he spent the next half-hour walking through the corridors and the rooms around the library, looking for something that might conceal a secret entrance – a curtain or wall hanging, perhaps, a wardrobe or a tall bureau. He didn’t find anything. He ended up back in front of the library door again, hands on hips, frustrated.
Maybe it wasn’t a secret passage. Maybe it was a secret stairway, or a secret ladder. That would require much less space behind the walls.
Upstairs or down? Sherlock considered for a moment, and decided to see what was underneath the library. He had already spent enough time wandering the corridors of the castle without meeting anyone, and he knew his luck couldn’t last forever. Heading down into the cellars would hopefully keep him away from people. Besides, he hadn’t seen the lower floors yet, and he was curious.
He stood in the hall, trying to work out where a stairway leading down to the cellars might be. As he stood there, he heard a sound behind him, like leather scuffing against stone. He turned quickly.
Count Shuvalov’s manservant – the burly Russian with the close-cropped hair – was standing in the shadows. He was staring at Sherlock with no expression on his face. When he saw that he had been spotted he nodded, once, and walked away.
Sherlock watched him go, feeling uneasy. What did the man want?
He shook his head to try to banish the concern. He had other things to think about. He already knew that the main staircase didn’t go below the ground floor, but he had previously noticed an insignificant door near the bottom. Pushing it open, he discovered a narrow flight of stone steps leading down.
At the bottom Sherlock found a passage that led left and right. A lamp hung from a hook on the wall, providing a meagre and flickering yellow light, but the two branches of the corridor faded into darkness after twenty feet or so. The ceiling was low, nearly touching his hair, and the walls were bare stone. He tried to work out where the library was in relation to where he was now, and decided that it had to be off to the right. He unhooked the lantern and carried it with him as he headed in that direction, passing a series of arched doorways, some with wooden doors sealing them and some without. They were obviously storerooms.
Something on the ground, in the doorway of one of the rooms, attracted his attention. He stopped to look.
It was a pair of shoes.
He bent down to examine them. They were women’s shoes, black, and the leather was cracked with age. They had been well looked after, but they were obviously long past the time when they should have been replaced. Obviously their owner was poor, and couldn’t afford new shoes, but appearances were important to her, which is why she had taken care of them.
He remembered the dead servant. She had been barefoot. Were these her shoes? If so, did that mean she had died here, down in the cellars, and that her body had been moved up and left in the castle grounds? Her shoes might have fallen off as she was dragged away, he supposed, but why would anyone want to hide the place where she had suffered a heart attack but not hide the body? It didn’t make sense.
Leaving the shoes where they were, he straightened up and moved off. This castle was just full of mysteries.
A wall suddenly appeared out of the shadows in front, where the corridor made an abrupt right-hand turn. He kept going, aware that he was moving further and further away from the location of the library but interested to see where the corridor actually led. It turned left, and then right again as he walked, with no obvious reason why.
Within a few minutes, the stone of the walls had been replaced with brickwork, old and crumbling. The flat ceiling over his head had given way to arches. Patches of green moss had taken hold in places, and were hanging on for grim life.
A dark ring around the walls appeared within the bubble of lamplight. As Sherlock got closer he saw that moss had spread all the way around the walls and across the ground. He hesitated before stepping on to it. It was only when he counted his footsteps and realized that he was now beneath the castle moat, and that the moss was almost certainly growing on the moisture that had seeped through the bricks, that he felt safe enough to continue.
He kept walking, knowing by now that he was actually outside the boundaries of the castle. The corridor – more properly a tunnel now, he supposed – was leading him out into the grounds and into . . . where? Into the Irish countryside, he assumed. It was difficult to keep track, what with the way the corridor had twisted several times, but he thought he was heading parallel to the cliffs.
Other tunnels began to sprout off from the one Sherlock was in. They led into darkness, and Sherlock didn’t feel that he particularly wanted to explore them – not at the moment, anyway. Following a single tunnel in a straight line, he was unlikely to get lost. If he started turning off on a whim, then he was likely to completely lose his bearings. From some of the tunnels – usually the ones that led off to the left, towards where he estimated the cliffs to be – he could feel a faint hint of cold air on his skin. He also thought he could detect a slight downward slope to those tunnels, but it was difficult to be sure. Did they lead to caves down on the beach? Quite probably.
Next time he came down, he promised himself, he would take some paper and a pen, and make a map as he went along.
It was increasingly apparent to him that this castle had some kind of historic connection to smuggling contraband goods. The smugglers had probably landed their goods by boat on the beach and then stored them in the caves. Other people – locals – had then used the tunnels to get to the goods and transfer them inland, possibly keeping them in the dungeons of the castle if there was any sign that the police were going to search for them. Would the castle’s owners have been involved, or was it more likely that the castle servants had, over many generations, dug the tunnels and were running their illegal business from beneath the castle without the owners actually knowing? There was no way of telling.
Sherlock kept walking, heading away from the castle.
The tunnel ended without warning. Suddenly, in the lamplight, Sherlock saw a wall ahead. Why would someone put a wall there? It didn’t make sense, he thought, unless it had been done in a hurry to disguise the tunnel from outside, to stop anyone getting in.
The wall was odd. For a start, it was built out of a different kind of material from the tunnel walls and ceiling. They had been brick, and this was stone, but not the kind of light, granite-like stone that the castle was made from. No, this wall was made from blocks of a darker, greyer stone, and it was rougher. Running his fingers across one of the blocks he could feel a rasping sensation. Looking closer, he also thought he could see small holes in the stone – natural holes, not created ones. He had never seen anything quite like it.
Sherlock realized with some surprise that the wall had a gradual curve to it. It had to be a planned thing – but why? What was the purpose?
The bricks of the tunnel were held together with mortar, Sherlock noticed, but there was a gap between the bricks and the dark grey stone. Through that gap he thought he could detect a faint breeze, and the smell of the sea. He bent down and checked the junction between the flagstones of the floor and the wall, and found something odd. The flagstones had actually been cut to fit a
round the curve of the wall, and there was a gap there too.
He looked up at the junction of the wall and the roof. The same thing was true there: the bricks had been cut to follow the curve of the wall, as if the wall went up further than the tunnel. And down further as well.
There was no moss on the wall. That struck Sherlock as being particularly odd. The walls and the arched ceiling were both marred by occasional blotches of the green stuff, but the dark stone wall was completely clear. Maybe it was something to do with the stone itself, he mused. Perhaps that type of moss didn’t like growing on that type of stone.
He stood there for a few moments, hands on hips, frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t go any further. Eventually and reluctantly he turned to leave, but as he did so he put out a hand and rested it on the wall.
It was vibrating.
The sensation was very faint, but clear enough that he stopped and placed both hands against the stone. There was definitely a vibration there, but he had no idea of where it was coming from.
More frustrated than ever, he turned to walk back to the castle.
It took thirty minutes for him to get back to where the stairs led up, towards the castle, passing all the tempting side tunnels on the way but always aware of which direction he was going in. He glanced into the doorway where he had found the shoes earlier. They were still there, which somehow surprised him. Given the strange things that were happening in this castle, he had almost been convinced that they would have vanished.
When he got to the stairs he glanced up into the darkness, towards the closed door at the top, but shook his head. There was still another branch of the underground corridor to explore, and he knew that it would keep gnawing at his mind if he didn’t complete his investigations now. He walked on, the centre of his glowing bubble of candlelight.
For the first few minutes the corridor to the left of the stairs was the mirror image of the corridor off to the right. He wondered if he was going to waste the next hour replicating the last one, including finding himself way outside the castle walls and being confronted by a curved wall of dark stone. Instead, just when he wasn’t expecting it, the corridor abruptly turned right, and ended in another archway sealed by a wooden door. This door was bigger than the previous ones. Sherlock tried it, and to his surprise it opened.
The room he found himself staring into was large, with an arched stone ceiling. The only illumination was the lantern that he carried. It was another storage room, but there was no mistaking what was being stored in it. The room was filled, floor to ceiling, with racks containing bottles of wine. Sherlock could tell that most of the bottles had been there for a long time – dusty cobwebs covered everything, looking strangely like the ectoplasm that Ambrose Albano had produced during the séance of the night before.
The thing that struck Sherlock the most, however, wasn’t the bottles, or the racks, or the cobwebs. It was the black fungus.
This wasn’t the green moss that he had seen in the tunnel earlier. This was something much darker and much more alive. This stuff wasn’t just clinging to the edge of existence: this stuff was actively exploding with life. It filled the corners of the wine cellar in the same way that seaweed covered rocks on the beach, or that snow would pile up in the winter. It crept up the wine racks and covered the lower bottles like a dark and evil tide. It hung from the ceiling in black curtains and drapes. Everywhere that Sherlock looked, he could see it. It seemed to glisten slightly in the light from the candle, as if it were wet. He imagined that, if he touched it, the fungus would squish beneath his fingers, leaking some strange and potentially toxic black fluid, but he had no intention of testing that out.
Eventually, realizing that it was almost time for dinner, he left the wine cellar and headed for the stairs that led up to the hall.
He was about to move towards Mycroft’s room to see how he was when he heard voices outside the open front door. He glanced over, and noticed Count Shuvalov and his military manservant standing there. They were arguing – or, rather, Shuvalov was speaking quickly and angrily and his manservant was attempting to interrupt. Eventually Shuvalov jerked his head dismissively, and stalked off. The manservant watched him go with an expression of dismay on his usually impassive face.
Sherlock headed upstairs, towards Mycroft’s room. There was a different servant standing guard outside the door. She looked at him, recognized him, and nodded.
‘Sir.’
He nodded back, and entered the room.
Mycroft was awake, and reading. He glanced at Sherlock. ‘Ah, good evening. I see you have been outside and also underground. I must have been asleep for longer than I thought.’
Sherlock smiled. There was no keeping of secrets from his brother, but there was also no point in asking how his brother knew the things that he knew. Unlike Amyus Crowe, he rarely gave lessons. ‘Ambrose Albano is a fake,’ he said, ‘the coach crash was arranged in advance, and there are tunnels leading away from the castle in various directions, probably built by smugglers.’
‘Very concise. Be so kind as to explain the evidence for your first and second statements.’
Sherlock explained about searching Albano’s room, and about finding the sawn-through axle. He wondered whether he should tell Mycroft about the stories of the Dark Beast, and the dark shape that he had seen moving around, but decided not to. There were all kinds of explanations for that, and none of them affected the job that Mycroft and he were there to do, as far as he knew.
‘Albano will reappear tonight,’ Mycroft concluded. ‘It will set the scene perfectly for the second séance.’
‘That was my conclusion as well.’ Sherlock hesitated. ‘Do you feel well enough to join us for dinner and for the séance?’
Mycroft shook his head. ‘The doctor has advised me to stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours, at least. There is, fortunately, no sign of concussion, but my system has been weakened and needs to recover. Sir Shadrach has very kindly agreed to provide my dinner on a tray.’ He paused momentarily. ‘Actually, a series of trays. Probably a trolley carrying numerous trays. He did indicate that he wished me to participate in the séance, and suggested that I use one of his spare bath chairs, but I worry that the strain of getting out of bed would be too much at the moment. I keep falling asleep at the most inopportune moments. No, Sherlock, I fear that you will have to take my place both at dinner and at the séance.’
‘You fear?’ Sherlock repeated.
‘An unfortunate choice of words. I have complete confidence in you.’ He gazed at Sherlock for a long moment. ‘I have spoken with Mr Crowe, and I understand that his daughter is here as well. Have you spoken to her?’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then be gentle. She will be as confused and uncertain as you are.’
‘That,’ Sherlock said, ‘I seriously doubt. Did you know, by the way, that he was going to be the American representative?’
‘I suspected so, but I had no actual evidence, so I said nothing to you. It does, however, make sense from the point of view of the US Government.’ He turned his attention back to the book in his lap. ‘Report back to me after the evening’s events. I am agog to discover what will happen.’
Sherlock nodded, and left.
A gong sounded for dinner just as he was descending the stairs. He headed for the dining room.
Most of the other guests were already assembled, with the exception of Amyus and Virginia Crowe, and of course the missing Ambrose Albano. Sherlock took his place at the table, nodding at Count Shuvalov, Herr Holtzbrinck, von Webenau, Sir Shadrach Quintillan and Niamh Quintillan. Candelabras set along the table served to illuminate the room. The curtains were open, and through the windows Sherlock could see a dark and stormy sky. Rain splattered intermittently against the glass, sounding like thrown gravel.
The servants were just preparing to serve the soup when Amyus Crowe and his daughter entered the room. He was wearing his usual white suit, while Virginia was almost
unrecognizable to Sherlock in a pale violet gown that perfectly matched her eyes. Her hair was up, and she looked so much older and more assured than Sherlock remembered. She looked like a lady now, not a girl. He wondered bitterly if he looked like a man to her, rather than a boy – now that it was too late.
She glanced at him and smiled nervously.
‘Many apologies for my slight delay,’ Crowe boomed, holding the chair out so that Virginia could sit down. ‘Sir Shadrach, you have a daughter too, an’ a beautiful one. You must know, therefore, just how long it takes them to get ready for a simple evening meal.’
‘Daughters are jewels beyond price,’ Quintillan said, ‘and so we must give them every opportunity to display themselves in the right setting.’
He smiled at his daughter. Niamh smiled at her father, then her gaze sought out Sherlock, and she shared the smile with him. Virginia glanced at Niamh too, and Sherlock thought he caught a flicker of emotion on her face, although he was unsure exactly which emotion it was. Perhaps several.
Lightning flashed outside the window, and a sudden gust of wind rattled the glass. Moments later a peal of thunder echoed through the castle’s halls and corridors.
‘A fine night for communicating with the dead,’ Herr Holtzbrinck said. ‘A shame the séance has been postponed. I presume that there is no news of Herr Albano’s whereabouts?’
Quintillan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything another flash of lightning, bigger this time, illuminated the room in stark black and white. The following gust of wind was so strong that it sent the dining-room windows crashing open, letting rain spill into the room and blowing the candles in the candelabras out. Darkness engulfed everything.
‘Do not panic,’ Quintillan’s voice rang out. ‘The servants will relight the candles in a—’
The candles suddenly came back to life by themselves. Their flames seemed twice as tall, twice as bright as before.
