Legitimate Lies

by Cosgrove, Julie B;

  Maneuvering the armoire out of the way enough for me to scoot around it without making noise took time. But several rug tugs later, I unlocked the door, opened it a wedge and slid through, candlestick in my left hand. My teeth clenched as I eased the door shut. The click barely audible, I huffed the breath I’d been holding. So far so good.

  I stood in the dark hall for a few minutes until my eyes adjusted. The marble busts all seemed to stare at me. I thanked God no human eyes did.

  Steady, one foot in front of the other. Deep breath. Take your time. I crept down the hall at a snail’s pace. Was that my pulse pounding or someone else’s footsteps? I stopped.

  I heard a cough and saw a door slightly open. The baroness lay in a massive bed on her back. With a groan, she turned in her sleep and soon began to snore again. I tiptoed over and quietly closed the door.

  My shoulders drooped as I let out a sigh. Close. Very close. A thought leapt into my head. Wait, maybe she knew the tunnel existed. She may have hidden in it as a child during WWII. I could wake her and with the rest of the household asleep, we could have a long talk undisturbed. But, what if I scared her? Someone resembling her dead granddaughter appearing in her room in the middle of the night might make her scream. I would if I were her. No, I’d better try to locate it on my own.

  I waited a few more minutes before moving again. One, two, one, two. I snuck sure-footed along the hallway to the first flight of stairs. From the narrow window behind me, a slice of moonlight illuminated my path as if destined. I inched down the rungs, placing the ball of my foot, then my heel on each, as I listened for creaks and groans in the wood. About the sixth one, the wood squeaked under my weight. Drat.

  I stood still.

  “Who’s there?” one of the minders called out in a hoarse whisper.

  I edged into a squat and curled up next to one of the stone spindles. Maybe in the dark he wouldn’t detect my presence.

  A click and a slight static buzz echoed. “Hey, this is Steve. Have you seen anything on your floor? I thought I heard a sound.”

  An indistinct male voice came through his walkie-talkie. “No. She’s still in her room.”

  “Okay. Maybe one of the cats.”

  I pinched my lips together. How had I gotten past the guard on my floor? I don’t know, but thank You, Lord.

  The minder turned and walked at a snail’s pace down the corridor and veered to the right.

  I proceeded, rung by rung, to the landing where he’d been. With slow, deliberate steps, I scooted across to the next set of stairs.

  At last, I made it to the bottom step. The main hall spread out before me. I paused. No one in sight. The ancient manor seemed like a sleeping giant. Creaks within and rustles from outside perked my ears. Only the wind. Keep going. To say my skin crawled at each sound would be a vast understatement. Every ancestral portrait in the faint slivers of moonlight seemed to monitor my movements. But the cut-out eyes so people could spy happened only in the movies, right?

  A shadow crossed my path. I gulped.

  In the window of the library, a tree limb swayed, casting a long, scraggly arm across the hall towards my feet. I sidestepped and turned down the back corridor and through the dining room. The mahogany door at the far end looked familiar. I remembered the other servants and Jane coming in and out of it. It must be the one leading to the kitchen quarters below. The wood felt cold and hard. I pushed and the hinges gave off a soft complaint. Sidestepping through, I now was in the belly of the building. The lack of moonlit windows made it pitch black, but I dared not waste my matches. Not yet. Mime-like, I inched ahead, fingers outstretched, step by step. Then, to the left I saw the railing in a faint ray of moonlight. One more flight to go.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Probably the most bustling place in the manor during the day resembled a graveyard at night. Everything stilled. It took some time to navigate through this maze of hallways as I wound to the kitchen, the cupboard, butler’s pantry, and the servants’ dining quarters. I rang my hands over a long wooden table. How many generations had sat there, gossiping about the shenanigans and improprieties upstairs?

  I ventured down another short hall. Occasionally, the plank boards complained with a creak. Each time my pulse quickened. I’d stop, listen, sigh, and proceed.

  “The livery has to be here somewhere.” My own whispers broke the silence.

  My ears caught another whisper, and then a giggle. I dashed inside a closet. The smell of mothballs and saddle soap invaded my nose.

  “Sshh. Come on.” A male voice. It sounded like Andrew.

  “Will anyone find out?” A girl. Jane?

  “Not unless you tell them, luv.”

  Another giggle. Definitely Jane.

  “The wine cellar has such a huge stash, they won’t miss a bottle or two.”

  “And after we’ve drunk them…?” Her voice dangled on the last word.

  I couldn’t decipher his whispered response which set forth another giggle. Shuffled footsteps sounded. A door creaked open, then slowly closed. All fell quiet again.

  Part of me wanted to stomp down to the cellar and chide them both for what they were about to do. But, I wasn’t their mother. Besides, how would I explain my presence? Got hungry after all and decided to raid the fridge? Right.

  I counted to one hundred before I dared move again. But wait. Maybe I didn’t have to. Cabinets lined the closet on one side and a long rod filled with clothes on the other. I took another whiff. Bleach, mothballs and definitely saddle soap. This had to be the livery. Thank you, Lord. Now to find the secret passage.

  I pushed some of the clothes aside. The insecticide smell, mixed with a slight hint of body odor and various stale aftershaves, assaulted my sense of smell. Nothing in this panel. Same with the next, and the final one. My mood plummeted. The diary had clearly said the entrance existed.

  Could they have boarded it up? But surely I’d feel a variance in the wood if they had. I leaned against the wall and pushed aside my brewing frustration. My father always told me worry didn’t do any good, logic did. Think, Jen. Think.

  Wait. The floor. I knelt down. My hands swept over the bottom boards. There. A long crack. That had to be it. I scooched over to follow it. Definitely rectangular in shape. My fingers detected a small indentation, barely bigger than my thumb. A latch?

  Yes. With a slow groan, the hinged wood gave way. A whoosh of mustiness flew at my face. I scrambled back to where I’d laid the candlestick and struck my match. Praise be to God on High, it lit the first time. In the flickering light, wooden steps curved slightly to the left. I set my light source aside on the floor a tad outside the cupboard, back-crawled into the hole, and lowered myself down. With floorboard to my armpits, I stretched for the candlestick, grasped it tightly, and began my descent.

  Where would this lead? Narnia? Droplets of water echoed down the tunnel. The sides felt damp, stony. I shuddered. I’d had a phobia of dank and dark spaces ever since I accidently became locked in my grandmother’s trunk as a young child. Why was I doing this?

  Distant voices and giggles filtered from the floor above me.

  Oh, my gosh. I’d forgotten to shut the hatch. Oh, Jen, how stupid. With candle in hand, I tiptoed back up the steps, and pulled it closed in slow, steady movements—straining to keep it from clunking in place against the floor. A hushed prayer of thanks left my lips.

  Just then, something brushed my leg and scurried away. Squeaks and more swishing against me. Rats.

  I clamped my mouth to hold in my scream. The candle flame went out in a swoosh. The dark shrouded me. My feet wouldn’t move forward, no matter how much I willed them to do so. The old fear stapled me to the floor, rats or no rats. Come on Jen, you have to move.

  Then a thud sounded, and the tunnel flooded with light from above.

  “Well, well. Exploring the manor I see.”

  Andrew crouched in the opening, hand on the latch. Jane hung on his shoulder, wobbling. She giggled, and slunk to the floor on
to her backside in a hiccup.

  I shoved the hot wax in his face and ran.

  “Arghh. My face.”

  His painful cry bounced off the stone walls, in sync with the thumps of my pulse.

  Even though my legs took me further into the musky darkness, I didn’t care. Beyond this tunnel lay my one chance at freedom. I sucked down my fears and pushed forward.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  My breath shallow and my sides ached but I kept running.

  Cold water sloshed over the plastic booties and into my socks. My feet began to cramp. Still, I ran with all my might.

  I groped to find my way in the blackness. My knuckles scraped along the stone sides as the tunnel twisted and straightened out, and turned again…but on I dashed.

  Then the direction changed, as if on an incline. My muscles strained forward. I stopped and, in between huffs, listened for footsteps. No. Nobody followed.

  Not necessarily a good thing. It meant Andrew went to get help. Most likely he knew where the tunnel came out. They had vehicles, I only had my legs. There wasn’t much time.

  The passage became steeper. The sides of the tunnel muddy. Almost in a prone position, I scooted on my knees until I touched wood—a trap door. It took several thrusts of my shoulders before the hinges gave way. I grabbed hold with both hands and pushed. Dirt and grass cascaded into my face. At last, moonlight filtered through. I’d made it.

  Feet and fingers dug into the earth as I hoisted myself to the surface, slid out like a walrus onto a river bank, and rolled onto my back. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.”

  “I’m not Jesus, but you’re welcome.”

  I gasped and struggled to my knees. His silhouette gleamed in the shaft of moonlight as he crouched to my face. “And who do you be, missy?”

  My eyes, now adjusted to the dark, detected an older man. When he grinned, three holes appeared where teeth once had been. In one hand he clasped a pipe. The pungent aroma of clove and tobacco emitted from its bowl.

  I swallowed hard, hand flat to my chest. “I need your help. I am in danger.”

  “Are ya now? Well, well. A true damsel in distress.” He rolled his shoulders back and howled a laugh.

  “Ssshh, please. Someone will hear you.” My voice squeaked my plea.

  He stopped and cocked his head. “You are frightened now, aren’t ya, luv?” He clamped the pipe stem between his remaining teeth and held out a hand. “Come on with ya. I’ll put on a cuppa. That’ll settle your nerves.”

  His palm felt calloused and rough, but in a strange way I can’t describe, tender. I had no idea who he was, but something inside me said to trust him. What choice did I have? It was that or run back into the tunnel.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “This way, me girl. My quarters are right over the hill there to the left of the gazebo, no more than a half mile into the woods.”

  I stopped. “Woods?”

  He turned back to eye me, but kept walking. “Yep. Where I live for the time being. Won’t take no time a’tall to stoke up the fire.”

  I paddled after him, my plastic booties slipping against the wet grass. “You have a campsite?”

  He winked. “Home sweet home she be. Until they find me and boot me off their land, of course.”

  A vagrant squatter is my rescuer? Oh, great. Just great.

  I followed him as best I could. The plastic on my feet had begun to shred from the tunnel floor, the twigs, and the sharp blades of grass. He gazed back at me. “You got no shoes?”

  “No.” I stopped and placed my hands on my knees to catch my breath. “They took them from me so I wouldn’t run away.”

  “That’s a new one.” The man snickered. “Guess you fooled them, didn’t you now?” He motioned with his hand. “It’s only a little further. Can you make it? I don’t know if I could carry you.”

  I nodded. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Through the tree limbs, the moonlight filtered onto the hill. There stood the gazebo, its shape visible amongst the branches.

  “Pretty, ain’t it? Place for lovebirds from what I’m told. Story is a young woman from the manor house met her lover up there. They ran off, but she was killed in a car accident. Sad.” He halted and leaned into my face. “Not what really happened, now is it?”

  I halted in my tracks. “It’s not?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Tell ya the true story when we get to the campsite. Heard it from another, well, man of the world like me.” He snickered again.

  “How much further?” I jerked the plastic cover back over my heel as I hopped on the other foot.

  “We’re almost there.”

  A few minutes later, a clearing revealed a lean-to tent tied against a tree and a small fire ring. The moonlight cascaded down through the trees in streaks, making it fairytale-like. A log served as a perch.

  “Home is where the heart is, they say.” He winked. “Set yourself down and rest. I’ll bring you a blanket to wrap up in and get the water boiling.”

  He I watched as he crouched down on his heels and began to build a fire. His movements became almost mechanical. I guess he’d done this hundreds of times over the years. Soon, glowing flames crackled between us.

  I could see him more clearly now. He wore dingy light-colored, tweed pants and a flannel shirt. A scruffy beard covered his face up to his cheekbones. The old man set a pot on a small grid over the rocks. He got up with a groan and went over to the lean-to. He came back with a blanket in his arms.

  “Here ya go. That’ll warm you in no time.”

  “Thanks, Mr… I don’t know your name.”

  He eased down onto the log. “And I don’t know yours. Maybe we’d better keep it that way for now.”

  “Okay.” I perched on the ground. Probably a loner who liked his privacy. At least he wasn’t curious-natured.

  The scratchy wool cover took the chill off my shoulders. I curled it around my body and tucked it under my feet. A few minutes later he handed me a hot, tin cup. The smell of strong tea filled my nose.

  He took a loud sip from his own and set it down next to his feet. “Well, I owe you a story, then you’ll tell me yours.” He winked. “As much as ya want, that is.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Now, about the manor woman. Word is she met a rather shady bloke from town and they, er, you know, did what young people in love do. She got in a family way, so they planned to run away together. But her brother and another man, I guess a gumshoe of his, tracked them down.”

  “Gumshoe?”

  “Yeah. You know, a private eye.”

  “Ah. A detective.” I nodded and drank down some more tea. The warmth soothed my muscles. “Did your friend describe him?”

  “Who? The young bloke?”

  “No, the gumshoe.”

  The man scratched his chin. “Can’t say he did. But I think he was a Yank from Texas, like you.”

  Robert? A chill blasted down my spine. But to cover my angst, I replied in an exaggerated drawl. “Ah, what gave me away?”

  We both laughed. His laugh appeared genuine. Mine to stop the eeriness creeping inside of me. Even so, I had to learn more. Knowledge was power. “But, that was several years ago, you said?”

  The man nodded. “That’s right. Before my time in these woods.”

  Robert and I were still married at that time. Dear Lord above. I remembered now. He had flown to England to meet a client. Oh, how I’d pouted when he told me I couldn’t go with him, but he said it was going to be all business and no pleasure. To appease me, he’d brought me back some English rose soap and lotion. The client he met with had to have been Andrew. Andrew told him about Niamh, maybe showed him a picture. That was how Robert and Becky knew I’d be a ringer for her if they dyed my hair and changed my eye color.

  I gulped the crawling anxiety with a swallow of strong tea. With a casual tilt of my head, I pumped him for more information. “What happened? Did they find them?”

  The old man leaned in
and tossed the remainder of his drink in the fire. “Yep. My fellow traveler told me he witnessed the whole thing. They knocked the young bloke out, put him in a car and sent it over a cliff. Stupid wally, thinkin’ he could have a manor lass.”

  Vehicular accident. The same way Tom had faked my death to hide me from the cartel. The way he’d planned Robert’s so he could go dark as a CIA op to infiltrate them. I sensed a pattern.

  The thought of Tom clenched my chest. Tom’s a Texan as well. Could it have been Tom, not Robert, who had done this? No, my heart screamed. No way. I trust him. I have to. I sipped some more tea in silence as my nerves settled. After a minute I decided I needed to know the rest. “What happened to the girl?”

  The old man rose off his heels. “Well, they say the brother found out she had a sprog in her.”

  I knitted my brows.

  “You know, a baby. Made her have an abortion. Backstreet. Bled to death.” He clicked his teeth together. “It happens.”

  Some of the tea came back up into my mouth. I coughed. Poor Niamh. How heartbroken and scared she must have been.

  * * *

  My mind went back to the horrible, bloody day of my baby’s death. Robert held my hand once the cramping started. I squatted in the bathroom in excruciating pain as if my insides were being pulled out of me. I remember my horror upon seeing the tiny, bloody thing in the towel. Then Robert saying, “Sorry that was so painful, Jen, but you know I don’t want a baby now. It’s for the best.”

  The cramps lingered off and on for two days. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the tiny fetus. Had it been a boy, or a girl? Would it have had my auburn hair or Robert’s green eyes?

  Six years later, the memory continued to haunt my dreams.

  * * *

  My anger bubbled into a soft boil. I pieced together a timeline. Had Robert known Niamh? Did he persuade Andrew to make her have an abortion? Was that the hold Robert had over him? Is that why Andrew did his bidding? No wonder the family told everyone she had been killed in the car accident— to save face.