EG02 - The Lost Gardens

by Anthony Eglin

  At four thirty, Kingston left the gardens and made his way back to the cottage where his bag of tools was ready waiting. The canvas bag contained a hammer, set of screwdrivers, chisel, pliers, electronic stud finder, several types of brush, can of air spray, a heavy Mag-lite flashlight and other miscellaneous items. Recalling the maxim that flashlights are tubular metal containers often kept in a briefcase to store dead batteries, he wasn’t going to trust his memory as to when the batteries were last changed, so he threw in four new spares.

  It was drizzling steadily as he made his way to the chapel. Somehow the weather seemed appropriate for the Gothic encounter to come. This could be his last trip to the chapel. If he didn’t find the secret entrance to the catacombs this time, he would give up.

  Closing the door to the chapel behind him, he switched on the flashlight and walked down the aisle to the first row of pews. There, he placed the toolkit on the bench, turned on the floodlights and sat down next to the aisle. He shivered. The place was like a tomb. Unlike his previous visits, where he’d spent many hours examining the limestone walls and timbers up close, and scrutinizing the floor on his hands and knees, he decided, this time, to simply sit and study the interior as an integral unit. He wasn’t quite sure what this might accomplish but he’d tried just about everything else and his instincts told him that perhaps he was looking too hard: that the answer was staring him in the face. Maybe not ‘staring’ but it was here somewhere. He felt it in his bones.

  Sitting on the hard pew, he looked around the interior. It was now so familiar that he could visualize it with eyes closed. After a minute or so he gave up. With one elbow resting on his knee, he lowered his head, closed his eyes and massaged his brow. ‘Damn,’ he muttered under his breath. He sighed deeply, opened his eyes and stared blankly at the wooden rail of the pew front barely inches from him. It was the colour of dark chocolate with a lighter grain. He was sure it was oak. The eighteenth-century Welsh dresser in his flat had similar graining and patina. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of the pew, looking across the aisle to the row on the other side.

  Perhaps he should forget the whole thing. It was taking up far too much of his time and if he hadn’t found anything by now, chances were he never would. Just how important was it anyway? Important to him but not necessarily to Jamie. Since their talk in the car on the way back from the hospital, she had not mentioned the attempt on her life. It was clear that she was making an heroic effort to put it behind her—trying to behave normally. And now, right on top of it, Dot’s death. It was remarkable how well Jamie was holding up.

  Right after the accident, Kingston had suggested that she get away for a while, even go back to the States and perhaps stay there until such time that credible explanations were found for the deaths and bizarre happenings that had taken place at Wickersham. He could keep things going in her absence; hire a new full-time housekeeper, keep working on the gardens and maintain the house.

  But she would hear none of it. As much as she tried to behave as if nothing had happened, the stress was clearly getting the better of her. The laughter was gone between them and the smiles were fewer.

  He had purposely avoided bringing up the matter of hiring a contractor to go through the chapel, as she had recently suggested. He saw no point in it right now but knew if this last search of his were abortive, that would be the next step. He would insist on it.

  With the thoughts of Jamie swirling in his mind, Kingston had forgotten all about what he was supposed to be doing. He stood for a moment to stretch his legs. The pew was hard and unforgiving. He felt sorry for the devout worshippers, required to sit interminably through droning sermons in those bygone years.

  Why was he looking so hard at the pew on the other side of the aisle? It was identical to the others but … somehow different. It took him several seconds before he realized why. He crossed the aisle and looked closely at the wood surface, then cast his eyes down the row. He turned around and looked at the row behind, then the one behind that. He went back to where he’d been sitting and studied the surface of the wood again.

  With his knowledge of the cellular origins of graining, he knew that the wood was tangential cut: a longitudinal section cut parallel to the long axis of the trunk. In this respect, all the pews were the same. But the wood of the pew where he was sitting was slightly, very slightly lighter in colour than the others in the chapel. Perhaps it was the angle of the floodlights? Was that creating the illusion? He went over to the heavy tripod that Jack had rigged up and dragged it closer to the front row of pews. He rotated it ninety degrees, then back a few degrees until the two lights shone equally on both sides of the aisle. There was no question, his pew was fractionally lighter in colour.

  He took out the flashlight, bent down and shone it on the base of the pew where it met the flagstones. He saw what looked like a tiny crevice. How was the pew joined to the flagstones, he wondered? He leaned his hip up against the pew and shoved. Nothing moved. It was rock solid. Pulling out the can of air spray, he whiffed it along the crevice. The jet of air propelled a puff of dust and dirt in front of it as he moved along the pew. He stopped to examine the result. Between the base of the pew and the stone floor was a gap, little more than one eighth of an inch. It continued along both sides.

  He stood, gripped the front rail of the pew with both hands and shook it hard. Again, nothing budged. He tried lifting it—same result. Whatever method had been used to affix the pew to the floor was both rigid and cleverly concealed. He scratched his head and stood looking down the length of the bench. How was the damned pew anchored to the ground?

  He couldn’t come up with the answer. Instead he came up with an intriguing hypothesis. The footprint of the pew was roughly three feet wide by about six or seven feet long, at the most. If the pew were removed, it would leave an opening in the floor sufficiently wide and long enough for a person to comfortably pass through. In his mind’s eye he visualized the primitive mechanics: the pew being hinged by a transverse rod at one end, and when lifted from the opposite end, tilting it to vertical, revealing a flight of steps down into the underground chambers. The more he thought about the idea the more it made sense. Problem was—how to raise the pew? How would the monks of those medieval times have designed and constructed it?

  Logically, he figured that there had to be a concealed release mechanism somewhere not too far from the pew. He started with the presupposition that the device would be primitive. More likely a cord or cable of some kind attached to a spring that released and activated a locking device, the same principle as a conventional door latch. The obvious hiding place was the pulpit. Only a few feet from the front pew, it would have been relatively easy for the monks, or those who had conceived the system, to fabricate. Problem was that the pulpit was so simply constructed. It was no more than a panelled box with turned balusters on the corners, topped with a slanted panel to hold the scriptures or sermons. There was nowhere, inside or out, to hide a secret panel, lever or toggle. He’d already gone over it before, top to bottom.

  The next possibility was the baptismal font. That was immediately behind the pulpit, off to the right. It was made entirely of stone and resembled a crude birdbath, certainly nowhere to hide anything there. Likewise, the well. Once again, it looked like a stalemate.

  Kingston stood next to the pulpit thinking back to the meeting with Chadwick. Perhaps not telling Chadwick and Jamie about the chapel and the underground rooms might have been a mistake on his part. He knew damned well why he hadn’t. First and foremost, he wanted to impress and surprise Jamie with the discovery—if it happened, that is. And second, he didn’t want Chadwick to step in just yet and shove him aside, which he knew was exactly what would happen. Regardless of what took place from now on, he would tell Jamie everything that he’d been up to. Then she could decide what she wanted to do about it, which, ironically, would probably be to involve the police.

  Forgetting all this, calmed by the solemn quiet, he let his eye
s wander round the chapel. The all too familiar unadorned plaster walls, the stern pews, the ancient well that had surrendered its grisly contents. How many sermons had been voiced from the simple pulpit, he wondered? Was it just the family and staff at Wickersham who filled the pews? Or were the local parishioners included? How many generations had shuffled through these dark oaken doors to celebrate the joyous moments of their lives or salve their guilt?

  He inhaled deeply, rubbed his brow and sighed. That was it, then. The monks of Wickersham Priory had won. Either that or he’d been wrong all along. He took one last look around the chapel, then hoisted up the tool bag from the floor by the pulpit. As he turned to leave, the back of the bag banged against the front of the pulpit. It was no more than a light knock—caused by one of the heavier tools, the hammer or the flashlight—but it was enough to give him pause and stop. There was something about it that hadn’t sounded right. Lowering the bag to the ground, he stooped and knocked three times with his knuckle on the same spot. It was a hollow sound. Not unexpected because the pulpit itself was nothing more than a vertical box enclosed on three sides. But it didn’t sound right. It was what? Too hollow a sound?

  He let go of the bag and stood for a moment examining the front of the pulpit. Then he went round to the back and positioned himself where the vicar or priest would have stood to address his small flock. With his hands resting on either side of the pulpit, like a prisoner in a dock pleading his innocence, he stared out to the empty pews. Then he looked down to the place where the bible or scriptures would be. Then he got it.

  Inside the pulpit, his knees were barely three inches from the wood panel. Yet looking down from his height, he could see that the front of the pulpit extended several inches beyond that. Why on earth hadn’t he thought of it before? In the old days, bookcases were often constructed that way. Shelving on the front of the case and behind it a hidden space of several inches, neatly concealed, usually by a self-locking hinged back. The optical illusion was almost impossible to spot. Only the most perceptive eye would notice that the side dimension was somewhat deeper than that suggested by the front view where the books backed up to the rear panel. In fact, with books filling the shelves, it was almost impossible to tell that there was a false back to the case.

  Now on his hands and knees, inside the pulpit, Kingston traced the panel in front of him with the tips of his fingers. If he was right—and he was now certain that he was—there was a way of removing or swinging out the inner panel. The carpenter who had crafted the pulpit had been skilled in cabinet making because all edges of the panel were perfectly butted against those on the three sides and the underside of the lectern. Barely a hair’s breadth separated them. How did it work? There were no hinges or spaces where a finger could be inserted under the panel. It had to work with pressure, he figured. He placed his hands squarely on the centre of the panel and pushed. Nothing happened. He tried doing the same thing to the base of the panel, the sides and the top centre of the panel, all with no success.

  He stood and stepped back for a moment. If he had constructed the pulpit, where would he have positioned the opening device? Certainly not at the bottom because that could easily be kicked, as it doubtlessly was over many decades. Same with the centre of the panel, where a heavy person’s knee could accidentally bump into it. It had to be located somewhere at the very top, underneath the lectern. But there was no space underneath. The sloping top was a solid piece of oak.

  On his haunches, Kingston eyed the smooth panel facing him. It was almost as if it was taunting him. He took his time, placing his left-hand thumb on the top left corner. Then he did the same with his right-hand thumb on the opposite corner, careful to line it up at the same level. He leaned forward and applied equal pressure with both thumbs. ‘Damn,’he muttered. Leaving his thumbs in place, he relaxed for a moment and this time pushed much harder. A small click and the panel fell forward resting on his hands. ‘Gotcha!’ he said.

  Gently, he lowered the wooden panel to the floor of the pulpit. Now he was looking at the unfinished back of the pulpit’s front panel. He saw it immediately; an oval iron handle, the size of drawer-pull, in the centre of the panel. He slipped three fingers inside it and pulled. He didn’t have to pull very hard. A muted clanking sound echoed around the bare walls. He let go of the handle and took four steps to the front pew.

  Gripping the end rail with both hands, offering a prayer of sorts, he closed his eyes and lifted. With an ease that he least expected, the pew started to rise. He opened his eyes and watched with amazement. The motion was unbelievably smooth and silent. In a matter of seconds it finally came to rest at a ninety-degree angle to the floor.

  It was exactly as he had pictured. In front of him was a rectangular opening in the flagstones. At his feet, a flight of stone steps disappeared into the darkness below.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Flashlight in hand, Kingston entered the catacombs. Being a touch claustrophobic, he prayed that the tunnels or corridors—whatever was down there—would not be too cramped. He was aware that in the Middle Ages men were a lot shorter, and his six-foot-plus height could become a handicap. At first, he’d questioned the wisdom of exploring the underground by himself but, after weighing the pros and cons, he convinced himself that the risk was minimal. In any case, after all he’d done to get to this momentous point the impulse to explore was overwhelming.

  He’d already made sure that the pew was stable, unlikely to fall. An examination of the latch indicated that it could be released from below. The idea of being accidentally trapped down there was unnerving but as far as he could tell there was no likelihood of that happening. If the flashlight batteries started to go, he would have sufficient time to retrace his steps before they died altogether.

  It was more than a dozen steps down before he reached the foot of the stone stairway. An uneasy feeling passed over him. It was as if he were about to leave the twenty-first century and the real world. Shining the light around, he saw a long tunnel ahead, more like a hall since the construction was rectilinear. To his relief the ceiling looked tall enough for him to navigate without crouching. Even so, his head grazed the ceiling where he was standing. Both walls and ceiling were of greyish stone blemished in places with calcareous ochre and chalky deposits. The floor was a simple cobblestone. Every twenty feet or so, a single stone projected from the wall at a level with Kingston’s head. Judging from the caked layers of wax, these were clearly candle sconces. The air was cool and stale-smelling, not dank as he had expected. The smell was not unpleasant, vaguely herbal, which was not surprising since he knew that herbs were often used in medieval times to repel insects and vermin.

  About twenty steps farther down the hall, he came to a small room on his right. The simple wooden door was ajar. Pushing it open with his foot, he shone the flashlight around the space. It was empty. Another ten feet along was a second room, this time on the left. This space was considerably larger and the ceiling higher than that of the first room. A low partition divided the room in two and a mezzanine projected eight feet or so from the back wall. Kingston took it for a workshop or storage area. Soon he reached another room, much like the last one but the door was iron-bound and had a lock with a bronze escutcheon. Inside were the remains of what had once been heavy wooden racks of some kind. Aware that the production of wine and mead was a popular and profitable pastime for the monks, Kingston speculated that this room was a storage cellar for wine casks. He smiled to himself—hence the lock.

  Passing two more empty rooms he came to a junction. The hall continued but also headed off to the left and right, offering three choices. At this point, he judged that he was well over a hundred feet into the labyrinth. Its sheer size and complexity was far more than anything he’d ever imagined and there was obviously more to come.

  In the next fifteen minutes, he explored both the left and right hallways, which in turn led to others, and more rooms of differing size, most of them empty and all unlocked. It was a reasonable
assumption, he decided, that the rooms he’d seen so far were used either for storage, work or sleeping.

  Venturing farther into the maze—marvelling at its size and accomplishment—he suddenly realized that he hadn’t been paying attention to directions. Getting lost hadn’t crossed his mind till now and there were few, if any, markers. He was beginning to wish he’d left some of his own but it was too late for that now.

  He glanced at his watch: almost six thirty. He’d been down there for close to half an hour. Had he covered the entire labyrinth, he wondered? Hard to tell. Regardless, he decided to go back to the chapel. He could return later with Jamie, maybe Ferguson, too—Roger would go bananas when he saw it. Doubtless, it would be considered among the most significant British archaeological discoveries of the century. The first job was to rig up some temporary lighting—a challenge, even with the length of the hallways he’d covered already.

  From that first rush of excitement and trepidation, when he had stepped into the dark unknown of the catacombs, until now, Kingston had forgotten his principal goal: to find Ryder’s secret hiding place—the room or vault where he stored the paintings that were shipped from France. Now he was experiencing a sinking feeling at the prospect of having to face up to the bitter disappointment of discovering that, after coming this far, there was no such place. That he’d been wrong about Ryder all along. How many rooms were still unexplored? There was no way of knowing. But at least there were some. So there was hope yet. If one of his earlier theories held water, then there could well be a good reason for his not having uncovered anything so far.