done.
They’d hoped to get a good look at the basement room, especially its floor, but when the old lady pulled open the door, disappointment awaited them. The old woman had clearly moved from a much larger house and had kept all her furniture. It was stacked, packed, into the basement room; barely five square inches of floor were visible.
“Ah — yes.” Cobby stared at the hotchpotch, glanced briefly around at the walls, then nodded. “Right. That’ll do.”
He turned to thank the woman, pouring on the Scottish charm. They left her almost smiling.
The instant they were back on the pavement and the door had closed behind them, Jeremy stated, “We need to know if we’re right about the basement.”
Cobby waved him on. “Next house, then. This close to High Street, they’ll all be the same.”
The next door was opened by an elderly gentleman, a retired soldier. He was gruffly genial and, leaning on his cane, happily conducted them about his house, chatting about this or that the whole time.
They humored him and were amply rewarded when he showed them into his basement room. “Same as all the others, of course.” Setting the door open, he waved them in. Cobby lifted the lantern he held, playing the light over several pieces of old furniture stacked in one corner. Otherwise, the room was empty, the floor bare.
Both Cobby’s and Jeremy’s gazes lowered, following the lantern’s beam as Cobby visually searched the stone floor.
Beside them, the old soldier chuckled. “Aye — it’s the same as in all the other houses along this terrace. I wondered if you knew to check for it.”
His gaze on the wooden trapdoor set into the floor, Jeremy nodded. “We’ve seen it in some, but in other places — for instance in the old lady’s house next door — we’ve been unable to confirm it or examine it ourselves.”
“Go ahead.” The man nodded at the heavy bolt set into the trapdoor’s surface. “Just pull that back and you can take a look.”
Eager to do so, Jeremy pushed past Cobby, who shifted the lantern to focus on the trapdoor. Jeremy wriggled the bolt loose, pulled it back, then lifted the panel. While it was inches thick and heavy, it was nicely weighted on good hinges; it opened easily enough.
Cobby stepped closer and shone the lantern down the gaping hole. The edges of the trapdoor were solid and sound; a neat, newish wooden ladder led down to the floor of the corridorlike space beneath. “Yes,” Cobby said, “this is just like the last house where we could check, a few doors up the terrace.”
“Oh, aye.” The old soldier nodded sagaciously. “This whole terrace was built by the same builder — all the houses are as close to identical as makes no odds. Clever fellow left every house with an escape route in case of another big fire. Wouldna have been so many people died if they hadn’t blocked off the access to the old tunnels there. Easy enough to go down, along, and out.”
Jeremy smiled and looked across the open trapdoor at Cobby. “What a wise and helpful builder, indeed.”
Genevieve, with Taylor at her back, shook Eliza from a sound sleep.
Shielding her eyes from the glare of the lamp Taylor held, Eliza blinked awake. A glance at the cold puddle of wax, all that was left of the fresh candle they’d given her when they’d come to take her luncheon tray away, suggested she’d been asleep for some time.
She struggled onto her elbows, watching as Genevieve set a faintly steaming pitcher on the washstand. “What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock.” Genevieve turned to her. “Scrope’s decided you should join us for dinner. Easier than making up a separate tray.”
Setting a lighted, two-armed candelabra on the washstand, Taylor snorted. “It’s the last night we’ll be babysitting you. More like Scrope wants to celebrate.”
“Regardless”— Genevieve nudged Taylor back toward the door —“we’ll leave you to wash and tidy yourself. We’ll come back in
They’d hoped to get a good look at the basement room, especially its floor, but when the old lady pulled open the door, disappointment awaited them. The old woman had clearly moved from a much larger house and had kept all her furniture. It was stacked, packed, into the basement room; barely five square inches of floor were visible.
“Ah — yes.” Cobby stared at the hotchpotch, glanced briefly around at the walls, then nodded. “Right. That’ll do.”
He turned to thank the woman, pouring on the Scottish charm. They left her almost smiling.
The instant they were back on the pavement and the door had closed behind them, Jeremy stated, “We need to know if we’re right about the basement.”
Cobby waved him on. “Next house, then. This close to High Street, they’ll all be the same.”
The next door was opened by an elderly gentleman, a retired soldier. He was gruffly genial and, leaning on his cane, happily conducted them about his house, chatting about this or that the whole time.
They humored him and were amply rewarded when he showed them into his basement room. “Same as all the others, of course.” Setting the door open, he waved them in. Cobby lifted the lantern he held, playing the light over several pieces of old furniture stacked in one corner. Otherwise, the room was empty, the floor bare.
Both Cobby’s and Jeremy’s gazes lowered, following the lantern’s beam as Cobby visually searched the stone floor.
Beside them, the old soldier chuckled. “Aye — it’s the same as in all the other houses along this terrace. I wondered if you knew to check for it.”
His gaze on the wooden trapdoor set into the floor, Jeremy nodded. “We’ve seen it in some, but in other places — for instance in the old lady’s house next door — we’ve been unable to confirm it or examine it ourselves.”
“Go ahead.” The man nodded at the heavy bolt set into the trapdoor’s surface. “Just pull that back and you can take a look.”
Eager to do so, Jeremy pushed past Cobby, who shifted the lantern to focus on the trapdoor. Jeremy wriggled the bolt loose, pulled it back, then lifted the panel. While it was inches thick and heavy, it was nicely weighted on good hinges; it opened easily enough.
Cobby stepped closer and shone the lantern down the gaping hole. The edges of the trapdoor were solid and sound; a neat, newish wooden ladder led down to the floor of the corridorlike space beneath. “Yes,” Cobby said, “this is just like the last house where we could check, a few doors up the terrace.”
“Oh, aye.” The old soldier nodded sagaciously. “This whole terrace was built by the same builder — all the houses are as close to identical as makes no odds. Clever fellow left every house with an escape route in case of another big fire. Wouldna have been so many people died if they hadn’t blocked off the access to the old tunnels there. Easy enough to go down, along, and out.”
Jeremy smiled and looked across the open trapdoor at Cobby. “What a wise and helpful builder, indeed.”
Genevieve, with Taylor at her back, shook Eliza from a sound sleep.
Shielding her eyes from the glare of the lamp Taylor held, Eliza blinked awake. A glance at the cold puddle of wax, all that was left of the fresh candle they’d given her when they’d come to take her luncheon tray away, suggested she’d been asleep for some time.
She struggled onto her elbows, watching as Genevieve set a faintly steaming pitcher on the washstand. “What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock.” Genevieve turned to her. “Scrope’s decided you should join us for dinner. Easier than making up a separate tray.”
Setting a lighted, two-armed candelabra on the washstand, Taylor snorted. “It’s the last night we’ll be babysitting you. More like Scrope wants to celebrate.”
“Regardless”— Genevieve nudged Taylor back toward the door —“we’ll leave you to wash and tidy yourself. We’ll come back in
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