Kolney Hatch: Buried Secrets (The Secret of Kolney Hatch Book 2)

by Stefani Milan

  After several seconds of thought, I decided to go to my right and continued down the stone passage. Each step I took in the darkness reminded me of the madness of the last time I was in those tunnels. I thought about Alice and Bradford. Did the police ever find their bodies? Were they taken away to be properly buried or would I stumble upon their decayed carcasses as I traveled through the passage?

  I prayed for the former, after all, the authorities did know about the deaths in the tunnels from my journal entries.

  Crack!

  I spun around quickly with my lantern, almost dropping the items in my hands, and searched for where the sound came from. The hairs on the back of my neck stood tall when I heard another cracking sound followed by a rumbling noise. I stopped walking. My heart began to race, and I held up my lantern. Then I realized I had walked through the tall archway and reached the entrance to the tunnels by the library. But someone else knew about the entrance and was making his way out of the tunnels. I could see the stone steps that led to the library, and keeping my eye on them, turned off my lantern. I did not want anyone to find me, and I needed to stay near the exit.

  I crouched in the corner and listened for voices. But I didn’t hear anything, even though a light still shined by the stairwell. Placing all the items I held on the ground, I pulled the dirk from my pocket. I was prepared to lunge at my assailant if he came around the corner.

  That’s when I heard a groan coming from the stairs.

  I hurried to the stairwell to see Harold’s contorted body lying on the stone steps.

  “Harold!” I cried, crouching over him. I shined the light on his face and saw blood leaked out of his nose and mouth. I immediately checked his pulse. Thankfully, he was alive, but his breathing was shallow. When I lifted his head gently, I felt warm, sticky blood. He had a significant head wound. I sighed in relief as Harold groaned and slowly came back to consciousness.

  “Ugh,” he grumbled as his eyes fluttered open.

  “Can you sit up?”

  Harold nodded slightly, and I helped him to a sitting position.

  “Agh!” Harold cried, touching his head.

  “Relax. You have a nasty wound. We need to get you out of here, but only when you’re ready to stand.”

  “I’ll need a minute.”

  “Are you well enough to tell me what happened?”

  In a groggy voice, Harold said, “I...waited for you...and I heard something. Came to you warn you but, they found me.”

  “Who found you?”

  Harold shook his head.

  “I only saw two men. I didn’t see their faces.”

  “Hmm,” I answered. “Well, I did find a lot in that room. I’m sure I found something important if they went through such lengths to protect it. We better get you home.”

  I helped Harold onto his feet. Then I headed to the entrance of the tunnels, grabbed all the things I’d found in the torture room, and started up the stairs.

  Harold and I reached the top a few minutes later, and when we did, I tried to open the door from the latch inside. Nothing happened.

  I pushed the latch again, and still nothing moved.

  “That’s strange,” I said, as I tried the latch once more. “It should have opened right away.”

  After many futile attempts to open the door, I gave up. Panic set in as I realized we wouldn’t be able to exit the tunnels from this location, and we would have to navigate through the labyrinth to find an exit.

  38 The Message on the Front Step

  “I find it a peculiar coincidence that Lady Dane is traveling to Paris,” Mrs. Wendell remarked as she took a sip of her tea. It was a cool, cloud-covered day in late April at Petunia’s home.

  “Why?” Petunia asked.

  “She’s told all of London that she’s travelling to Paris to acquire a spring wardrobe. But I know the real reason she’s going...”

  “And that is?”

  “Guy Finlaw,” Beatrice squeaked. “Lady Dane met him in a tea shop one day and she hasn’t stopped talking about him since.”

  “And with Richard Baker’s production, Mr. Finlaw is in Paris now.”

  “Why would Lady Dane be interested in a man half her age?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?” Beatrice argued. “He’s handsome and wealthy...”

  “And American,” Mrs. Wendell shook her head. “Though, I expect nothing less from Lady Dane.”

  “Well, I don’t think....”

  A blood curdling scream stopped Petunia mid-sentence, and after exchanging an apprehensive look with the ladies, Petunia sprang from her chair and hurried out of the drawing room to find the front door open, and Mrs. Glum with her hands covering her eyes.

  It only took seconds for Petunia to realize why Mrs. Glum had let out an ear deafening scream. Petunia did the same when she saw, on her front step, a dead and mangled rat with a note beside it.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Wendell said. “Whoever would do such a thing?”

  Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice had followed Petunia into the front hall and stood beside her looking at the dead rat.

  Petunia took deep breaths to calm her rattled nerves. She was getting quite tired of the continuous threats (which were happening more frequently now). This was the second time this week that she’d received a threat of this kind, although, this one in particular had been the most gruesome.

  Petunia’s hand shook as she quickly grabbed the note from beside the rat and opened it. Then she read it to herself.

  Let this be a warning of what happens to rats.

  “Petunia, what does the note say?” asked Mrs. Wendell.

  Petunia turned to Mrs. Glum who sat on Petunia’s stairwell with her head in her hands.

  “Mrs. Glum, would you please dispose of the vermin and then please, go on home for the day and rest. I am sorry you had to find that, and I’m sorry that you must clean it up.”

  Mrs. Glum nodded and stood from the stairs.

  “Of course, madam, and thank you, madam. I’m sure I’ll recover. I’ll dispose of the vermin on my way out, and I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Glum gathered her things, and when she was gone, Petunia turned to the ladies.

  “Perhaps we should go back into the drawing room.”

  “We should call the authorities immediately,” Mrs. Wendell insisted.

  The women entered the room and took their seats.

  “What did the note say, Petunia?” Beatrice inquired. “I could telephone Constable Wyatt. I’m sure he would be eager to investigate something as terrible as this.”

  “No, no,” Petunia asserted. “Please, I don’t want the authorities involved in this matter.”

  “What matter? You mean there’s a reason for this heinous act? Is about Phillip? Is someone trying to blackmail you, Petunia? You must tell me everything.”

  “Actually,” Petunia said, “There’s something I do want to share with both of you.”

  “I do think we should call the authorities though. Beatrice, go on and call Constable Wyatt...”

  “Tessie, please stop...”

  “Petunia, it’s for the best. Someone is responsible for...”

  “I can’t call the authorities,” Petunia snapped, her voice elevating. “Tessie, please. Listen to me!”

  “But why ever not? Of course you can. Beatrice go!”

  “Beatrice, no. Do not get up!” Petunia shouted.

  Mrs. Wendell narrowed her eyes. Her voice was unusually plummy.

  “Whatever has gotten into you, Petunia? I must know this instant if I’m to continue observing your boorish behavior.”

  “I overheard something,” Petunia blurted. “Something very terrible at the Loxley Masquerade Ball.”

  “What?”

  “You did?” Beatrice said. “Well, what was it?”

  Petunia gave Beatrice a sympathetic look.

  “If I tell you both this secret, I urge you not to say a word. Though our friendship is founded on..
.rumors, I can assure you this is not meant for gossip. If you tell a single soul, even someone you think you can trust, you may put your life at terrible risk.”

  “Oh, my,” Mrs. Wendell said, playing with buttons on her dark blue dress.

  “Well you must tell us,” Beatrice insisted. “Perhaps we might be able to help you if we knew what was wrong.”

  “Yes, but you may also be deeply affected by it.”

  “Well, I don’t think you can tell me anything that’s more shocking than a mangled rat outside your door. Please, Petunia, I do wish that you would hurry and tell us. All this anticipation is making me weak.”

  Petunia felt jittery, and she stood from her chair and paced back and forth as she spoke.

  “I saw something odd on the night of the ball. Constable Wyatt was desperately trying to speak to John Loxley alone, and something about his persistence led me to believe he was going to tell him something out of the ordinary. I followed them, up the stairs, and stood outside the doorway. That’s when I heard the story.”

  “What story?”

  Petunia did not want to tell Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice what happened that night, but she felt now, with everything that had happened that she must tell them, and so, she told them exactly what she’d heard that night. When she was finished, Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice sat quietly with looks of disbelief upon their faces.

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Wendell commented. “Oh my, my, my. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You never know what might happen at a Loxley Masquerade Ball. So, the murderer of both Wendy Watson and Louisa Stilwell is in possession of the German Wheelock pistol gun, and it’s possible that Roger Loxley or Richard Baker may have it?”

  Petunia nodded.

  “Poor Wendy Watson. I feel so horrid now that I spoke so ill of her. I even feel a bit sad for her son.”

  “And Constable Wyatt knew all of this, and he promised to keep the Loxley’s secret?” Beatrice asked.

  “Yes,” Petunia nodded. “I’m so, so sorry Beatrice. I know how much you like him. But I don’t think he’s a good man. Not if he would take money to keep a secret such as that one.”

  Beatrice wore a sad expression now as she spoke.

  “But what does this story have to do with the threats you’ve received, Petunia? Do you think someone saw you eavesdropping the night of the ball?”

  “I didn’t see a soul around, but now, I’m not so sure. Perhaps a maid or a servant was lingering nearby.”

  “Are you sure Mrs. Glum worked for the Potters only, Petunia?” Mrs. Wendell asked as she poured herself a cup of tea.

  “You think a servant would mastermind threats like this one?”

  Beatrice was examining the note now.

  Petunia shook her head.

  “Well someone must know,” Mrs. Wendell said.

  Beatrice seemed angry then.

  “I’m going to figure out who it is.”

  “Please don’t,” Petunia warned. “It’s much too dangerous, Beatrice. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “I insist. I must find out the truth.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “As I said before, I have a friend, a maid at the Loxley mansion. Clara Mills. I’m sure I can get information from her without telling her the story. And as it so happens, I’m still dating the Constable, so there’s no question that I can investigate him on my own and find out what else he knows, if anything.”

  “Please, Beatrice,” Mrs. Wendell pleaded. “Do be careful. The last thing I want is for you to be involved with those miscreant’s drama.”

  “Of course, I’ll be careful. Haven’t I always?”

  “Well, I do appreciate it,” Petunia interjected, “But I must say, my stomach feels in knots about it. I really don’t want you meddling in such a dangerous situation as this one.”

  “I promise, I’ll be careful.” Petunia gave Beatrice a concerned stare, and as Beatrice looked back and forth between Petunia and Mrs. Wendell, she said, “Don’t bother glaring at me that way. There’s no stopping me once I’ve made my mind up about something.”

  Petunia felt a wave of relief rush over her. She had kept her secret for so long, but now that Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice knew the truth, she felt less fearful. Perhaps Beatrice wasn’t dim-witted at all. Perhaps she had an unwavering strength and determination, and for that, Petunia was grateful. Petunia was certain the threats would continue, but with Beatrice on her side, she may just find out the truth about Wendy and Louisa’s deaths and who it was that was threatening her.

  39 Bones

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  April 20, 1927, continued— I didn’t have anything to dress Harold’s wounds, and we needed to find one of the other exits quickly. I only knew of three exits. The main one was the library bookcase, and that had obviously been destroyed. The second was the crawlspace, but I knew that even if I was able to find it again and crawl back, Harold couldn’t. The third exit was the one where Amy had helped Bonnie, George, and me escape. That led to the abandoned house. I hoped the book case was the only blocked exit and that the assailants didn’t know I was in the tunnels.

  “Are you able to walk?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Harold croaked, so I helped him walk down the steps slowly. His wounds were worse than I thought, so he wasn’t able to walk well. Harold needed a hospital. He leaned against the wall as I gathered the ledgers and files once more.

  “Can you use the wall as support to walk?” I asked Harold.

  “Yes,” he said, fading in and out of consciousness.

  “Take your time, Harold, but you have to stay alert. I know of another exit, and I think I remember the way. At least part of it, anyway.”

  We entered the tunnel entrance. Harold used the wall as a guide. His gait was slow, and I knew that at his speed, finding the exit would take double the time. When we reached the first fork in the tunnel, I could not remember if I traveled to the right or the left those many months ago. I chose the right, and Harold and I traveled in the blackness. We traveled in silence accompanied only by the sound of dripping water. Although I knew the murderous patient Bradford was dead, I could not shake the memory of him attacking me.

  A short distance down the path I realized I had not taken the right turn, for instead of another tunnel fork, I came upon a tall arched door and knew I had reached a torture room I’d never seen before.

  I didn’t want Harold to grow too weak to walk. He had begun breathing rapidly and was still bleeding heavily, so I decided this was a good place to take a short rest.

  “I’m going to investigate this room,” I said after I placed my things down and made sure Harold was seated safely on the stone floor. “When you’re ready to walk again, we’ll go.”

  As Harold rested, I grabbed my lantern and grunted as I struggled to open the tall wooden arched door. I thought about the story that Sheldon told me as I did, and I wondered if the “Lord of Madness” was true. If it was true, how many people had been in these tunnels and never returned?

  The room was a blanket of blackness except for my light, and when the light from my lantern reached the walls, my eyes widened as I saw several jester masks hung around the room. Some were in better conditions than others. One mask, pale green and gold with the lips overly extended, was turned up at the corners and gave me a chill. My eyes shifted to the back of the room, and I recoiled in horror. Bones. Bones were everywhere. Skulls, spines, arms and legs were thrown in a pile that rose up to the ceiling. I couldn’t spend a second longer in the room.

  But my feet wouldn’t move. I felt a cool rush of air wash over me as a chill ran down my spine. My imagination ran wild as I thought about Angus Kolney and how many people he murdered in those tunnels. I wondered if Thomas Reid had known about the lore. I wanted to leave, but my body was paralyzed as I stared at the mountain of bones before me. Then my eyes drifted to the masks. Their hollowed eyes stared at me, and I ran from the room.

  Though Harold wasn’t q
uite ready to move, I urged him to.

  “I know you’re tired, Harold,” I said, helping him to his feet. He groaned. “But the faster we reach the exit, the faster we can get you proper medical attention. I can’t help you down here.”

  Harold and I continued back the way we came. At the fork this time, we made a right, knowing that if we made a left we would go back to the library entrance. Once I made the right, I began to remember my way.

  After a few more twists and turns, and thankfully no more surprises, we reached the small, round wooden door that led to the abandoned home. The door was open, which made me wonder if someone had recently traveled this way. I helped Harold through the doorway and felt relieved that we would finally be safe. That’s when I heard the voices.

  40 The Embroidered Blanket

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  April 20, 1927, continued— I motioned to Harold to stay quiet. My plan was to quietly remove the floorboards—which had been replaced since the last time I was there—and find out who was speaking. But before I could do anything, I heard heavy footsteps and saw big hands removing the boards. Someone had heard us. I pulled out the dirk and held it ready to attack anyone who came at us.

  Then the floorboards were gone and two sets of eyes peered into the hole. Laura Newbury and a policeman stood over us. When Laura saw Harold, who was barely conscious in the corner of the dirt hole, she cried out.

  “Oh my goodness, Harold. Harold! What happened?!”

  “Someone’s attacked him, and he needs medical attention immediately,” I said to the policeman. Harold sat slumped over and motionless now. “I can’t help him. We need to get him out of here now!”

  “I’ll get a few more of my men,” the officer said and then disappeared. I couldn’t see much, but Laura was still crouched over the hole.

  “He’s going to be okay, Laura. I promise.”

  “What happened, Paul? Who attacked him?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t with him when it happened. He went into the tunnels to find me, and someone wanted him locked away permanently. How did you find us?”

  “You’ve been gone for hours. When you didn’t return, I knew something was wrong, and I telephoned the police. They saw Harold’s car at the main entrance, and we thought you may have gone into the tunnels.”