iantern here?'
'Down
by the bench, sir.'
'May
I borrow it, please?'
'Why?'
'Just
fetch it.'
Jem
loped off and Christopher went across to the house, stepping over the lowest
point of the exterior wall then walking to the steps which led down to the
cellars. He was still staring down into the dark tunnel when the nightwatchman
handed him the lantern.
'The
candle is burned right down, sir,' he apologised.
'There
is enough light still.'
'Do
you want me to come with you?'
'No,
Jem. Stay here. I will not be long.'
Holding
the lantern, Christopher descended the steps with sure feet. Having designed
and supervised the construction of the cellars, he knew every inch of them but
there was no time to admire the vaulting or the intricate brickwork now. He was
there for an express purpose. His visit was dictated purely by instinct. As he
moved from bay to bay, the brittle sound of his footsteps reverberated
throughout the whole vault. He still did not know why Sir Ambrose Northcott had
insisted on such large cellars and surmised that his employer wished to keep a
vast stock of wines down there. The place was empty now though soft, scurrying
noises indicated that rats were making their own tour of inspection.
The
dank smell began to take on a slightly noisome odour. It puzzled him.
Christopher feared at first that someone had dared to use his cellars as a
privy and violated their pristine cleanliness. He was outraged at the thought
that one of Littlejohn's men might have slipped in there unseen to relieve
himself. The further he went, the more distinct became the smell. Yet when he
reached the last chamber and raised his lantern, he could see nothing which
might produce it. The glow from the candle was too faint to illumine every
corner. It was only when he heard a sudden darting movement that he crouched
down and swung the lantern across the floor area.
Christopher
did not see the rat which had just fled the scene. His attention was
monopolised by the figure which lay in the corner of the chamber. The man was
on his back, his body twisted in pain and his clothing soaked with blood from
gashes in his chest. No respect had been shown to the dead by the rats. They
had started to eat the man's face away, removing both eyes and reducing an
already small nose to a jagged piece of bone. The crimson jowls were gnawed
into shreds. Christopher still recognised him immediately.
Sir
Ambrose Northcott would no longer require a new house.
Overcome
with nausea, he began to sway and retch. Christopher had to put out a hand
against the cold wall to steady himself. For a few minutes, he was completely
stunned. He had not expected to find anyone in the cellars, least of all in
such a hideous condition. His mind was numb. It was the nightwatchman's voice
which jerked him out of his daze as it boomed through the cellars.
'Is
everything all right down there, Mr Redmayne?' he called.
'No,'
croaked the other.
'What
is the matter?'
'Fetch
a constable.'
'Why,
sir?'
'Just
do as I say, Jem. There has been an accident.'
'Have
you been hurt?' said the voice anxiously. Heavy feet came down the stone steps.
'Do you need help?'
'I
am not injured,' replied Christopher, recovering quickly. 'Do not come any
closer. I will stay here while you run for a constable.'
The
feet halted. 'If you say so, sir.'
'I
do, Jem. It is an emergency.'
'What
shall I tell him?'
'Just
that. There is a dire emergency.'
'I
will go at once,' promised the other, moving off.
'Wait!'
shouted Christopher as a thought struck him. The feet halted again. 'Do you
live in this ward?'
'Yes,
sir. I was born and brought up here.'
'Do
you know a man named Jonathan Bale?'
'Very
well. Mr Bale lives in Addle Hill.'
'Fetch
him. He is the constable I want.'
'Yes,
Mr Redmayne.'
'Now,
hurry!'
Jem
needed no more instruction. The urgency in Christopher's command was enough to
send the night- watchman scrambling up the steps in the half-dark. He was soon
trotting clumsily through the
'Down
by the bench, sir.'
'May
I borrow it, please?'
'Why?'
'Just
fetch it.'
Jem
loped off and Christopher went across to the house, stepping over the lowest
point of the exterior wall then walking to the steps which led down to the
cellars. He was still staring down into the dark tunnel when the nightwatchman
handed him the lantern.
'The
candle is burned right down, sir,' he apologised.
'There
is enough light still.'
'Do
you want me to come with you?'
'No,
Jem. Stay here. I will not be long.'
Holding
the lantern, Christopher descended the steps with sure feet. Having designed
and supervised the construction of the cellars, he knew every inch of them but
there was no time to admire the vaulting or the intricate brickwork now. He was
there for an express purpose. His visit was dictated purely by instinct. As he
moved from bay to bay, the brittle sound of his footsteps reverberated
throughout the whole vault. He still did not know why Sir Ambrose Northcott had
insisted on such large cellars and surmised that his employer wished to keep a
vast stock of wines down there. The place was empty now though soft, scurrying
noises indicated that rats were making their own tour of inspection.
The
dank smell began to take on a slightly noisome odour. It puzzled him.
Christopher feared at first that someone had dared to use his cellars as a
privy and violated their pristine cleanliness. He was outraged at the thought
that one of Littlejohn's men might have slipped in there unseen to relieve
himself. The further he went, the more distinct became the smell. Yet when he
reached the last chamber and raised his lantern, he could see nothing which
might produce it. The glow from the candle was too faint to illumine every
corner. It was only when he heard a sudden darting movement that he crouched
down and swung the lantern across the floor area.
Christopher
did not see the rat which had just fled the scene. His attention was
monopolised by the figure which lay in the corner of the chamber. The man was
on his back, his body twisted in pain and his clothing soaked with blood from
gashes in his chest. No respect had been shown to the dead by the rats. They
had started to eat the man's face away, removing both eyes and reducing an
already small nose to a jagged piece of bone. The crimson jowls were gnawed
into shreds. Christopher still recognised him immediately.
Sir
Ambrose Northcott would no longer require a new house.
Overcome
with nausea, he began to sway and retch. Christopher had to put out a hand
against the cold wall to steady himself. For a few minutes, he was completely
stunned. He had not expected to find anyone in the cellars, least of all in
such a hideous condition. His mind was numb. It was the nightwatchman's voice
which jerked him out of his daze as it boomed through the cellars.
'Is
everything all right down there, Mr Redmayne?' he called.
'No,'
croaked the other.
'What
is the matter?'
'Fetch
a constable.'
'Why,
sir?'
'Just
do as I say, Jem. There has been an accident.'
'Have
you been hurt?' said the voice anxiously. Heavy feet came down the stone steps.
'Do you need help?'
'I
am not injured,' replied Christopher, recovering quickly. 'Do not come any
closer. I will stay here while you run for a constable.'
The
feet halted. 'If you say so, sir.'
'I
do, Jem. It is an emergency.'
'What
shall I tell him?'
'Just
that. There is a dire emergency.'
'I
will go at once,' promised the other, moving off.
'Wait!'
shouted Christopher as a thought struck him. The feet halted again. 'Do you
live in this ward?'
'Yes,
sir. I was born and brought up here.'
'Do
you know a man named Jonathan Bale?'
'Very
well. Mr Bale lives in Addle Hill.'
'Fetch
him. He is the constable I want.'
'Yes,
Mr Redmayne.'
'Now,
hurry!'
Jem
needed no more instruction. The urgency in Christopher's command was enough to
send the night- watchman scrambling up the steps in the half-dark. He was soon
trotting clumsily through the
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