by Joan Smith
On that occasion her conscience had goaded her into obeying a note from the enemy demanding that she deliver the ransom money to an out-of-the-way church in the dead of night. It was the most exciting thing she had ever done in her life and she had thoroughly enjoyed it. She was aware that a new case was in the offing now and hoped there might be some small role in it for her.
“I daresay his lordship would want me to accompany you if you are going out, milady,” she said hopefully when Corinne called for her bonnet.
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Ballard. I am just going out for a drive with Pattle and Black.”
“Where shall I tell his lordship you have gone, if he returns before you?” she asked, in a bid to at least learn what was afoot.
“Just out for a drive. I expect I’ll be home long before Luten.”
Mrs. Ballard knew when she was beaten. “Very well, milady,” she said.
Prance had arranged to take his own carriage and meet the others at his atelier. When they met there, they decided to have a closer look about for hidden treasure now that it was daylight.
“I noticed the cellar door was ajar last night,” Black said. “I’ll start down there.” He took a lamp, for the cellar would be dark, day or night. As Coffen was satisfied with last night’s search of the upper rooms, he opted to go to the cellar with Black.
Corinne and Prance could not resist taking a look at her portrait before beginning their search. They were standing in front of it, Prance wondering aloud if he had got the lips right and Corinne wondering silently if her left eye was really smaller than her right, when Coffen came running upstairs.
“Have you found something, Coffen?” Corinne asked, seeing his excitement.
“A hole,” he said.
“A whole what?” she asked.
“A whole hole. That’s all.”
“Oh dear,” Prance said with a sigh. “This could take forever. We’d best go below and see what he’s talking about.”
“There’s no mystery. I found a hole,” Coffen lifted his lamp high and led the way through the small kitchen and down the narrow, dusty stairs into a dark, dank cellar holding the discarded objects of a family’s lifetime.
Chairs with one leg missing teetered on top of trunks and boxes. Cracked ewers held jugs without their handles. The jugs held dried grasses and flowers. Corinne lifted her skirts to avoid the black beetles that scuttled about the floor. Prance batted at cobwebs suspended from the ceiling.
On the far side of the cellar, Black stood with his lamp beside one wall that had been cleared of debris. As they approached him, they saw he was looking into a hole. It was just a hole, about four feet deep and six feet across. Two shovels and a broom were resting in the bottom of the hole.
“How very odd,” Prance said. “You were right, Corrie. There was some buried treasure. I wonder what it was, and how long ago it was dug up.”
“I wonder if it has been found, or if someone is still looking. Thomson must believe it’s still here,” she said. “It’s quite a big hole. Big enough to hold a pirate’s treasure chest.”
“That hole looks fresh dug to me,” Black said. “The shovels are still shiny. I don’t see any marks where anything was taken out either. If it was a treasure chest, you’d see the soil indented where it had been sitting all those years. There’s just loose dirt there.”
Prance took a closer look and said, “I believe you’re right, Black.”
Coffen said, “I’ll have a look about for clues,” and took a stroll around the cellar, ignoring the real clue, the broom in the hole, as he poked about at the piles of discarded junk. After a moment he held up a paper bag. “You’re right, Black,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this hole was dug within the last day or two. The crusts are hardly dry yet.”
“Someone’s lunch, is it?” Corinne said, taking the bag Coffen held out and peering into it. “Cheese and bread.”
“A ploughman’s lunch,” Coffen said. “There’d have been ale to go with it, I fancy. A pretty dry meal otherwise.”
After a search of the cellar no evidence of ale or any further clue was discovered and they went abovestairs. “Thing to do,” Black said, “we’ll try our luck getting into the other houses.”
“I’ll take a stroll about outside and reconnoiter,” Prance said.
“See if the coast is clear out back while you’re out,” Coffen said.
Prance was in a hurry and just said with a sigh, “Now why didn’t I think of that?” as he led the way up the stairs and went on out the front door.
“There’s a back door in the kitchen,” Corinne said. “Let us see if there’s a fence separating the houses.”
There was no fence but a wild hedge had been allowed to grow unchecked to form a natural boundary. “I believe we can squeeze through,” Coffen said, yanking the branches on the less abundant hedge on the right aside. “Come along, Corrie. I’ll hold the branches back so they don’t scratch you. Some of them have thorns.”
Black leapt into action, clearing a path twice as wide as necessary, then going through himself to offer her his hand when she passed through. The yard had been neglected for some years, to judge by the rank grass and weeds and detritus there. Coffen began kicking at papers and examining them for age. As they were yellowed and falling apart, he didn’t consider them clues. It was Black who noticed the only item of interest.
“You notice the path leading from the street to the door is clear,” he pointed out. “Someone’s been coming here regular to tramp the wild grass down like that.”
As they stood looking at it, Prance came sauntering down the path. “Oh, you didn’t wait for me,” he said.
“We went out the back door while you were having your walk,” Coffen said, with no notion of giving offence.
“Someone’s been coming here regularly, Reg,” Corinne added, pointing to the path. “We’re going to try the door.”
The door was locked. Black volunteered to try his hand at picking the lock, but Coffen couldn’t wait and asked Black to give him a boost to the window. After considerable straining and grunting Coffen announced, “It’s closed tighten than a miser’s purse. Hand me up a rock, Black. I’ll have to bust the glass.”
“Put on your gloves,” Corinne said, as Black handed him a rock. “You might cut your hand on the glass.”
“Wait!” Prance said, in an urgent way. “Do we want them to know we’re on to them? A broken window will tell them we’ve been in.”
“A good point, Sir Reg,” Black said. “I’ll just try my hand at the lock on the door.” Ever mindful of duty, he gave Coffen a hand down before pulling out his wire.
The lock was an old-fashioned one, simple enough but so solidly built that his usual means of ingress wasn’t up to the job. The wire bent but the bolt didn’t budge. “I need something stronger,” Black said. Coffen produced a hasp knife from his pocket.
“Try the small blade,” he said to Black, who hardly needed instruction for this particular job. He had the door open in jig time and they went into a dirty scullery smelling of mildew and on into the kitchen. Here they found no bread crumbs but the evidence of ale that had been missing in the cellar next door. A tin pail of the sort taverns filled for taking out sat on the table, with three glasses around it.
“Let us see where the cellar door is,” Black said, and had soon found it. Like the one next door, it was ajar. As soon as he opened it, sounds could be heard coming from below. They all fell silent and stared, wide-eyed, at each other. The sounds were unexpected but not hard to recognize. Someone was digging down there. Black quietly closed the door and beckoned the others to follow him to the scullery where they could speak without being overheard.
“It sounded like at least two men,” Prance whispered.
“There’s three glasses,” Coffen pointed out.
Prance said, “I’ve got a pistol in the carriage.”
Black nodded approvingly, then said, “We’d best get Lady Luten home first. We d
on’t want her mixed up in a brawl.”
In the normal way she would have picked up a branch or some weapon and insisted on going down with them, but with a thought to her condition, she said, “I’ll wait in the carriage.”
“Nay, milady, we’ll take you home,” Black said. “I fancy those lads will be there a while.”
Prance quickly seconded him in this course. He hoped that Luten would be home and undertake the safest way of finding out what was going on, preferably one that did not involve guns. “We don’t know that they’re doing anything illegal,” he said. “Perhaps they have Burnes’s permission to be there.”
“Burnes is dead,” Coffen reminded him.
“Yes, but if he had given them legal right—. Well, I think we ought to talk this over with Luten before doing anything.”
After some discussion, it was clear that Coffen had no intention of leaving, Black was undecided, and Prance was determined to leave. Corinne found a solution.
“Why don’t you take me home, Prance, and the others can stay, but won’t start any trouble. Just watch and see if you can find out what they’re up to.”
“We won’t start anything,” Coffen said, making clear that if the others started trouble, he and Black would finish it.
Prance had to return to his atelier to lock up. He gave a sigh as he glanced around at his paintings. Despite the high praise heaped on them, no one displayed the least interest in acquiring one. Knowing that some mysterious and almost certainly dangerous fellows were working in his cellar lessened his enjoyment in his atelier. And while he devoted his leisure hours to Art, Besner was making headway with Binwell. He really ought to free up more time to concentrate on becoming president of the Society, but how could he abandon his Art? As they went out the door, a woman dressed all in black went hastening past. She gave them a long, hard look as she went.
“Where did she come from?” Corinne said, more to herself than Prance, but he replied.
“Quite handsome, though not my type. Such a strong nose is fine on a man, but it gives a woman an unattractive, arrogant air. She was a decent-looking woman, though,” he said, handing her into his carriage. “One might almost say a lady, but I don’t see a carriage. A lady wouldn’t be walking unaccompanied in this neighbourhood. What is she doing here?”
“That bonnet is from Mam’selle Marie,” Corinne said, as their carriage moved forward. “I saw it in her shop window a few weeks ago, and it wasn’t cheap. I recognize it from the little cluster of fruit where one would expect to see feathers, or even flowers.”
“You didn’t recognize her?”
“No, I don’t believe I ever saw her before.”
“She seemed mighty interested in us,” Prance said. “I wonder if she was looking for my atelier.”
As Prance’s carriage turned on to Gresham Street, they saw the woman step into a waiting carriage. It was a decent-looking but not elaborate carriage, black, drawn by matched bays. “I expect she was looking for my atelier,” Prance said. “I shall keep an eye out for her in future, when I reopen.”
“Oh look!” Corinne said as they drove past the other carriage. “She has a dog. See, there at the window. A cute little poodle, I think?”
Prance spared only a quick glance and saw a white form bouncing up and down at the window. He hadn’t much interest in dogs. “I shan’t allow her to bring it into my atelier. I daresay Luten won’t want you coming for sittings until we clear up this business next door, but I could have Villier sit for me. He is eager to see himself as Ariel. What I really want to do is Caliban but Villier would never agree to making himself ugly.”
The talk was all of his atelier and his plans for it while they drove home. Corinne hardly listened. Perhaps she and Luten would get a dog for their baby when it was a few years old. Luten wouldn’t mind. He loved dogs. There were always dogs at Ardmore Hall when she was growing up in Ireland. Yes, they would get a dog, just a small house dog for the baby.
Chapter Eight
Lady Luten and Prance reached home before Luten returned from the House. Mrs. Ballard, her nose twitching with curiosity, was never quite comfortable with Sir Reginald and in the normal way would have found an excuse to leave the room when he entered, but on this occasion her curiosity held her in place. So far as Sir Reginald was concerned, she might have been a cushion on the sofa. He freely discussed with Corinne the hole in the basement of his atelier and the digging going on in the house next door.
Mrs. Ballard had plenty of time on her hands and spent a good deal of it reading. His lordship had an excellent library. Sir Reginald’s interest in the Society of Antiquaries had led her into reading up a little on Roman relics in Britain. She cleared her throat to alert them she had something to say.
When Corinne turned to her, she said, “I have read there are many remains buried in London from the time of Rome’s occupation. I wonder, Sir Reginald, if that could be why those men are digging in your cellar.”
“We thought pirates might have buried their loot there,” Corinne said.
“I was wondering whether it had something to do with Cromwell,” was Sir Reginald’s opinion. “Many of the churches and abbeys he was destroying buried their treasures. Your idea is interesting though, Mrs. Ballard.”
In fact the more he considered it, the more interesting it became to him. He continued, “I seem to recall seeing an old extract in the Society’s library with a map outlining probable Roman archaeological remains in London. I believe the Gresham Street area adjacent to Ironmonger Lane is on the map. I noticed it as it is close to my atelier. It is entirely possible you have solved the mystery, Mrs. Ballard.” Mrs. Ballard flushed with pleasure.
“That wouldn’t be exactly a treasure,” Corinne said. “Not a financial treasure, I mean. It seems a good deal of labour only to find some shards of broken pottery or rusted armour if it was a fort, or some such thing.”
“Rome was the richest empire in the western world at that time,” said Sir Reginald, who was often amazed at Lady Luten’s ignorance. “It traded with any country it had not yet occupied. It had access to the riches of Europe and the orient. Precious metals, every jewel you can imagine, with the exception of diamonds. Heaven only knows what treasures they may have had. It need not be a fort that is buried. It could be anything—a public building, a place of worship, the villa of a governor or wealthy merchant. And of course the remains of the building itself would be of enormous interest to the Society.”
It had already occurred to him what a coup it would be if he could find some interesting Roman remains. It would practically guarantee the presidency of the Society.
Corinne considered his idea and said, “If Burnes found out about it, it could explain why he wanted the three houses. If it was some large establishment, it might extend under all three buildings.”
Prance liked this suggestion too. “The houses there now are narrow, with not much space between them. Some of the Roman villas were very large—atria, alae and so on. The hole in my cellar was adjacent to the wall nearest the house where we heard digging. I wager they have found something that leads them to believe whatever they have found continues into my cellar, and they are digging to confirm it. Oh this is incredibly exciting! We must look into this immediately.” He was not so eager that he meant to go alone, however. He would take Luten, Black, Coffen and perhaps a few footmen with him.
“It is all speculation,” said Corinne, who found old ruins less interesting than buried pirates’ treasure, and rang for tea.
Luten returned while Prance was still there and was informed of what they had found, and their theory as to its significance. He was only listening with one ear. In the other ear he heard loud and clear that his wife had not gone for a little drive, but had been lurking about a dark old cellar with a dangerous hole in the floor. Corinne recognized the signs of his concern and said, “Don’t worry, Luten. I didn’t go down to the cellar. I stayed in the carriage and Prance brought me home early.”
“I sh
ould hope so! Now, what were you saying, Prance? Some Roman remains might be buried in the cellars on Ironmonger Lane? One way to find out. Let us go and see.”
“We think the men there might be armed,” Prance said.
“Why the devil would a couple of archaeologists be armed? Who is going to steal a Roman wall, or even a bit of tiled floor, or a fresco?”
“We don’t know what they might have found. There might be great treasures.”
“We don’t know that they’ve found anything,” Luten pointed out. “They’d hardly be digging up my cellar if they found nothing,” Prance said with a pout. He would have left in a snit, had it not been for the party Corinne was holding for him. He finished his tea and was about to leave when Coffen and Black arrived.
“Here are the fellows who can tell us what treasure, if any, is being dug up,” Luten said.
“Did you actually get into the cellar without trouble?” Corinne asked them.
“The fellows left. There was just two of them, so me and Black went in to see what they were after. All a hum, I fear,” Coffen said, sliding into a seat closest to the tea tray.
“Nothing but some old broken-up tiled floor. There were a few rubbishing bits of broken jugs and bits of statues in that pile of dirt. We went back to your cellar as well, Reg. Black noticed the dirt in the bottom of the hole was loose. We found out why that broom was there. They’d just brushed loose earth over more tiles to hide them. Afraid you might take a look in your cellar, I expect. The tiles might have been a picture once. Looked like a woman’s head cut off at the neck.” He proceeded to help himself to a cup of tea and a piece of cake, unnoticing of Prance’s gasp of joy.
While Coffen dug into his cake, Black continued. “You might recall Townsend said there was some busted statues in Burnes’s flat. They were gone by the time Mr. Pattle and myself got there, so I can’t tell you if they were the same sort of thing as we found in your cellar, but it sounds like it.”
