by Davis Bunn
“I beg your pardon?”
“A riddle, Mrs. Feathers. A conundrum.”
“From Heather Harding? But Vicar, she’s dead.”
“Yes, we are well aware of that fact, Mrs. Feathers. Heather set Brian here a series of puzzles. Arthur was good enough to bring me in on the chase. And chase it is, since we only have a few days left to solve them.” Trevor squinted down into the now-empty rooms. “Has my vision started to fail, or is the light going bad in here?”
“It’s the people,” Arthur complained. “The crowd is clogging up the window.”
“Mrs. Feathers, would you be so good as to shoo all those ladies away?”
“Shoo the . . . Vicar, you must be joking.”
“Well, do be a dear and see if you can find us a torch. There must be one somewhere.” He turned to Brian. “Do you see anything?”
“The rooms seem laid out exactly as I remember.” Brian poked a finger into a windowless box. “Right down to the little chamber where I found the dollhouse.”
“We might have been wrong to concentrate on the cellar, after all. Darkness could refer to another such windowless room,” Trevor mused. “Very well, let’s lift up the next segment. All together now.”
Three sets of hands pulled off the next floor, and the little girls outside danced harder still. They searched and unpacked and then unsheathed the ground floor, by which time the deck around them was littered with miniature sofas and upholstered chairs and fainting couches and dressing tables and dining room pieces and sideboards and postage-stamp-size Persian carpets and even a pair of Siamese kittens and an intricately carved West Highland terrier.
But the ground floor refused to budge. It was only after they had used the flashlight supplied by Mrs. Feathers and searched every inch for another secret room, then tilted the base on its side, that Trevor and Arthur shouted together, “There it is!”
There at the bottom segment’s southern wall was another set of stairs—leading downward and away from the house. Trevor said, “Of course, a subbasement.”
“These old houses were often riddled with layer after layer of tunnels and vaulted chambers,” Arthur agreed.
“But we searched that wall,” Brian pointed out. “It was as tight as a drum.”
“It was also the most recently constructed.” Trevor slid out of the front area, then reached down to help Arthur to his feet. “What we need to do is search around outside the house, making a wider circle than we did before, and see if there is another way down.” As they were leaving the shop, Trevor turned back to the openmouthed woman and said, “Mrs. Feathers, would you be so kind as to put the house back together for us?”
It was only as they reentered the front gates of Castle Keep that Brian recalled, “Didn’t you have a lot to do today?”
The question only spurred Trevor to greater speed. “Never mind that now. Which side of the house was it?”
“South,” Arthur said, holding his own to the pace the vicar set. “I say, perhaps it’s out by where the old butler’s house used to stand.”
He led them to a clump of overgrown ruins lying alongside the manor’s boundary wall. Two stubby brick fingers rose to indicate where the chimneys had once stood. The three men separated and began kicking about the rubble, until Arthur cried out, “Here we are, lads!”
Brian and Trevor rushed over to where Arthur was tossing bricks and debris off a rusted metal lid. When they had cleared away the rubbish, they stood upon a metal cover five feet square and perhaps a quarter-inch thick. Trevor started scouting around, saying impatiently, “We need a rod or a crowbar to shift that thing.”
“I’ll go get us a torch,” Arthur said, hustling off.
“There are some old tools by the stable,” Brian said, racing in the other direction.
He returned with a rusted hoe and a pickax. Together he and Trevor huffed and puffed and finally managed to shift the steel plate over far enough for Arthur to point the flashlight, peer down, and cry, “Success!”
This was enough for Brian and Trevor to redouble their efforts and finally slide the plate over far enough to reveal steep stairs worn to treacherous curves. Trevor took the flashlight, squatted down low, and said, “I’ll light your way; you’ll need both hands to grip the walls.”
“Take care there, lad,” Arthur cautioned.
The steps seemed to go on forever. Brian took them at a wary pace, pressing his hands tight against each wall, testing each stair in turn. The flashlight’s beam was reduced to a feeble glow far overhead. He continued on mostly by feel until the next step broadened beneath his foot, and the wall to his right opened into pitch blackness. He started back up to where he could see the hand holding the light and called, “Drop the flashlight down.”
“Here we go,” Trevor called, his voice echoing off distant walls.
Brian caught the descending light, then gingerly made his way back down to the cellar. The beam illuminated a low-ceilinged chamber with something long and lumpy beneath a yellowed drop cloth. Brian stepped over, gripped one corner of the canvas, and tossed it aside. Instantly the air was clogged with clouds of dust. It was only when he could stop sneezing and hacking that he realized the two men were shouting down at him. Brian made his way back over to the stairs, and with streaming eyes he looked up to the tiny square of daylight.
Arthur’s voice echoed down. “What is it, lad?”
Brian pointed the flashlight back to what lay revealed. “I’ve found Heather’s wings.”
Fifteen
IT WAS DEFINITELY A VERY GOOD THING FOR ALL CONCERNED that there were no emergencies during her Saturday morning clinic. Cecilia saw to three elderly patients who needed medication and blood pressure monitoring, two young men mildly damaged by a Friday pub brawl, a pair of fretting babies, and an asthma patient who needed an increased dose of summer medication. Yet all the while, a portion of her mind remained occupied by what was to come that evening. The closer the hour drew, the less she could believe that she had ever agreed to stand up in front of a crowd of people, no matter what the reason.
As she locked the clinic door behind her, Cecilia was suddenly struck by a welcome memory. She found herself recalling the terror of her medical exams and the way she had prepared. Her walk back through the market square became rapid, her focus tight. A voice called to her, but she did not even bother to respond. She knew now what she had to do.
The day had turned surprisingly warm. Cecilia passed a trio of girls skipping in and out of the pillars of sunlight without noting them. She did not even hear one of the girls greet Cecilia with the news that her mother was feeling much better, nor the giggles that followed her as she exited the lane and passed through the manor’s entrance.
She let herself into the cottage, put on the kettle, and piled the vicar’s books and pamphlets on her kitchen table. She pulled out a pad and a trio of multicolored pens, made a cup of coffee, and seated herself. Until now she had been attempting to treat this upcoming talk as if it were a normal part of her everyday life. But there was nothing normal about it. She had accepted the task, and no matter how much she might dread the prospect, she had to prepare. She would make herself ready, just as she had for all those despised exams.
She was not a good speaker, and she tended to come across stiff and jerky. She knew this. The last time she had spoken in public was for her medical license’s oral exams. Her answer for the panic she had felt then had been to prepare so well that her knowledge showed through, despite her poor presentation. It was the only answer here as well. Cecilia opened the first book and got to work.
The hours passed in a flurry of concentrated effort. The outside world dimmed to where not even the roar of machinery in the manor’s front yard disturbed her. The clanking of metal, the shouts of voices, the calls of people, the driving back and forth through the front gates—none of it reached her. She sat and she read and she wrote. She practiced phrases, she spoke passages aloud to hear how they sounded. And as she had hoped, the grind kep
t her fear mostly at bay.
At the sound of heavy equipment rumbling along the manor drive, Brian raced down the stairs and out the front entrance. A huge man in his sixties stepped down from the tow truck and demanded, “Mr. Blackstone?”
“That’s right. You must be Bill Wilke.”
“The one and only.” He was an odd-looking man, not much shorter than Brian but double his weight, big and muscled and fit despite his years. He was dressed in coveralls of denim blue and had bright red cheeks and a graying walrus mustache. He swallowed Brian’s hand in a grip like a greasy catcher’s mitt. “Vicar tells me you’ve got yourself a right mess.” He looked behind Brian and nodded. “Hello, Arthur.”
“You’re looking well, Bill.”
“Can’t complain. Well, I could, but my wife stopped paying me any mind years ago.” He started kicking around the grass by the drive and muttered, “Now where is that ruddy thing.”
Brian pointed toward the south wall. “The stairs are over here.”
“I know where they are, lad, and I don’t aim on hauling that lady up any stairs.” He took another step across the lawn and kept kicking the untidy lawn. Each blow tossed up another clod of dirt and grass. “Could’ve sworn it was right here.”
Brian exchanged a baffled look with Arthur, then said, “How do you know what’s in the basement?”
“On account of me being the one who put it there.” His foot connected with something that gave off a metallic rattle, and he grunted, “Knew it had to be here. Couldn’t have forgotten something like that.” He turned and started walking back to his truck. “Isn’t all that often I get asked to bury a prize motorcar in a secret coal cellar.”
Brian watched openmouthed as the man climbed onto the back of his truck, gripped the massive hook with both hands, and began pulling the steel cord toward where he and Arthur stood. Bill Wilke explained as he walked, “Miss Heather told me she wanted to enshrine old Alex himself, but the council wasn’t having no part of that. So she said she’d have to make do with Alex’s favorite toy instead.” The mechanic hooked the clasp to what appeared to be a metal ring growing out of Brian’s lawn and finished, “I knew from the first instant the lady was joking, but it made for a good telling, and I always did have a soft spot for Miss Heather.”
“I don’t understand,” Brian managed. “The car was her husband’s?”
“Just said that, didn’t I?” He walked back to the rear of the tow truck, gripped a lever with both hands, and said, “You gents best be backing off. My guess is this thing will be kicking up quite a fuss.”
Bill Wilke took up the slack in the steel cable, halted the motor, spit on his hands, gripped the motor handle with one hand, and rested his other fingers on the cable itself. “Here we go, now.”
The motor ground, the cable tightened until it hummed taut and shivering. Bill Wilke pressed harder on the handle, and the winch motor began shrieking in protest. The tow truck rose up like a bucking horse, and then Brian’s lawn erupted.
Dirt and grass and rocks splattered everywhere as a metal plate twelve feet to a side came bolting up and sliding toward the truck. The steel grate wore a foot of dirt and grass and shrubs like a mantle. Bill Wilke dragged the plate over to the back of the truck, plowing a twelve-foot furrow through Brian’s lawn in the process. He halted the winch, jumped down, unhooked the catch, and once again began pulling out the cable.
Arthur said to Brian, “If all of Knightsbridge isn’t talking about you already, it soon will be.”
“Oh, I don’t guess the lad’s got much to worry about on that score.” Using the cable for balance, Bill Wilke began backing down a steep slope leading into the earth. “Had three people stop by this morning, telling me how Miss Heather’s done left the lad here a mess of riddles. Figured it was only a matter of time before I got this call.” The deeper the man moved, the more his voice echoed. “Mr. Blackstone, there’s a torch behind my seat. Shine it down here so I can remember what I’m about, will you?”
Brian did as he was told, then said, “The name’s Brian.” He received a thunderous sneeze in response. “How did Heather keep this secret?”
“Had me do it in the dead of night.” Another sneeze. Then there was the sound of metal clanking on metal. “Didn’t have the heart to tell the old dear she was crazy as a loon. All broke up over losing Alex, was our Heather.”
Bill Wilke used the cable to scale back up the slope, saying as he reappeared, “There was some nasty piece of work out to buy the car. Heather finally told me about him once the job was done. She was terrified the bloke would spirit the thing away when she wasn’t looking. She had me bring in my brother to wall up the cellar, all done secret-like. Decided the best way to fend off this buyer was claiming she sold it to somebody else. Or so she said. Like I told you, the old dear was dead bonkers.”
He hopped back up on the truck, moving nimbly for a man of his size and age. The winch began grinding, and Brian stood alongside Arthur and watched as the automobile was drawn into the light of day.
When the winch was shut off once more, Bill Wilke joined the men in circling the car. The exterior was fire-engine red with layers of sparkling chrome trim. Bill Wilke said in evident admiration, “Nineteen sixty-one MGA. Lovely bit of work, it is. Disc brakes on all four wheels, center-lock wheels. Done up like the D-type Jag. Motor built with a twin-cam head on her.”
“Lovely car,” Arthur agreed. “Takes me back a ways, I don’t mind telling you. Alex loved this machine with a passion.”
“Marine ply floors,” Bill Wilke continued, beginning to unsnap the cover that fitted over the seats and steering wheel. “Bit of a bone shaker, these ladies. But loads of fun.” He flipped off the cover, revealing the walnut steering wheel and seats of stitched Oxford leather. “Typical old British sports car, the MGA. Open roadster, just the tonneau cover you see here. If it rains, you hunker down and get wet.” He flipped open the hood, revealing a gleaming motor. “Tires are rotted, of course. I’ll need to clean out the fuel system as well. And the brakes might have seized up.” He ducked his head down and began studying the engine, his stubby fingers moving with the grace of a concert pianist. “But it looks like mice didn’t get into the wiring. No rust that I can spot. Valves still move smooth as silk.” He reemerged to wipe his hands on a dirty rag and announce, “I could most likely have the lady ready to sing this very afternoon.”
Brian asked because he had to, though the words hurt to form, “How much do you think I could get for the car?”
Arthur rounded on him. “My dear boy, you can’t be serious.”
“I don’t have any choice,” Brian said glumly. “I’m so broke—”
A voice from behind them cried, “That car is mine!”
They turned in unison as Hardy Seade raced down the lane, arms up and waving. The man’s customary aplomb was in tatters. “We had an agreement! Heather promised that car to me!”
BillWilke observed the man’s fury as he would an oil stain. “I always wondered if you were the goat Miss Heather was talking about.”
“You stay out of this, you meddler!” Hardy Seade wheeled to shriek at Brian. “This car is not yours!”
“On the contrary,” Arthur murmured. “By all appearances and forms, it most certainly—”
“Shut up, you doddering old fool!” Seade’s voice was one note short of a full-fledged scream. “I should have evicted you and that galling wife of yours years ago!”
Brian felt something snap. He met Hardy Seade’s furious approach with a violent shove. “You just back off.”
Hardy Seade’s arms flailed about, but he could not keep himself from tumbling onto his backside.
“Get off my property,” Brian ordered.
“Your property!” Seade scrambled up and dusted off the back of his suit. “You penniless mongrel, this time next week I’ll see you in the gutter where you belong!” He remembered what had brought him over, and he started forward once again. “And that car stays right where it is!”
“Not a chance,” Brian said. “I’d drive it off a cliff before I let you get your hands on it.”
“You . . .” The man’s face turned so red he looked ready to burst. “This isn’t some Wild West town where you can batter and shoot your way clear. This is a civilized country. We have ways and means of dealing with scum like you!”
“I’m not telling you again.” Brian took another step toward the man, balling up his fists in the process. “Get out of here.”
Hardy Seade’s attempt for haughty authority was defeated by the way he kept backing off. “I have every right to be here. I’m a lawful tenant!”
“Then I’m serving you notice,” Brian said grimly. “Your cars can stay, but if you show up again, I’ll have Bill Wilke clear the lot of them out of my stables and dump them on the street.”
“I’ll have the authorities on you for this!” He fanned the air as he retreated from Brian’s approach. “All of you will be brought up on charges. I’ll have you put away!”
His final cry came from safely beyond the main gates. “That car is mine!”
Brian waited until he was certain the man was gone, then returned to where the other men stood. Arthur greeted him with a satisfied smile and the words, “I thought that went rather well.”
“Anything that pushes Hardy Seade one step closer to the edge is a good day’s work in my book,” Bill Wilke agreed. “Though I warrant that bloke there will top any other cash offer you’ll get.”
“Hardy Seade is not getting this car,” Brian declared. “How much do you think I can get from somebody else?”
“Fifteen thousand quid or thereabouts. They only made a hundred thousand of these machines. That’s a paltry month’s work for the likes of Ford these days.” Bill Wilke granted Brian a look of pure approval. “Word is, the town council’s handed you the mucky end of the wicket.”
