Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“If anyone can find a secret exit, it’ll be Mrs. H here.” Even though my anger at Mrs. Malloy for bringing that gleam of tears into Judy’s eyes did not evaporate, I couldn’t help being touched by the pride in her voice. “Couldn’t put in a book all she knows about old places. Wouldn’t brag about it herself, she wouldn’t-modest to a fault, always was and always will be.”

This was laying it on too thick. Aware that attempting to sound self-deprecating would come off as self-satisfied, I kept silent.

“Glad for the silver lining,” said Alice. “Of course it’s too much to hope that Georges has supplied us with a torch.”

“Even if they aren’t remarkably scarce at Mucklesfeld, he wouldn’t make it that easy.”

“And to be fair to him, Ellie,” Judy’s voice came from close beside me, “it’s not to be expected that he would make things easier. A shame I’m not one wearing my hiking jacket; there’s a penlight in one of the pockets.”

A general murmur of resigned disappointment.

Molly spoke up. “I don’t know anything about secret passages and that sort of thing, but it doesn’t seem likely we’d find an opening on the window wall.”

“I don’t know all that much either,” I said in the direction of her voice. “Despite Mrs. Malloy is praise, I’m not an expert on houses the age of Mucklesfeld.” Answering snort. “Most of what I’ve gleaned-rightly or wrongly-comes from reading books of the sort written by Doris McCrackle. And in those fictional accounts the hidden opening is often found, after a great deal of tapping of the wainscoting, on one side or other of the fireplace.”

“There’s a lot of paneling,” said Molly, “but I didn’t notice a fireplace.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you would have done,” came Mrs. Malloy’s determinedly mellow rejoinder, “but it’s there on the back wall at the top of the table, closed off with a piece of metal sheeting.” Something I, the authority, hadn’t noticed.

Although not good in the dark (Ben might disagree), I managed to fumble my way without excessive bumping into furniture-hard-edged-or the other women-softer-edged-to the wall in question. A sharp yelp preceded Molly’s warning to be cautious of the metal fireplace covering. With considerable overlapping of hands, we proceeded to frisk the wainscoting. To be frank, I wasn’t entirely convinced we would locate a means of escape from the dining room other than the ones bolted against us. But just when I was thinking that past inhabitants of Mucklesfeld must have been a very dull, unimaginative lot, who hadn’t deserved the treat of being scared out of their wits by being forced to hide from the Roundheads or harbor a popish priest, someone bumped into me, causing my knee to jerk forward.

“Is whoever that was all right?” inquired Judy from somewhere to my right.

“Blissful,” I said, staring into an opening the size of a cupboard door, which though shadowy revealed the start of a passageway, suggesting that somewhere ahead was a window or even an exit. “Don’t anyone trample on me as we escape Georges’s clutches!”

Exuberant exclamations, cheers, and laughter exploded as I stepped forward. There was, however, nothing of a stampede in the surge behind me. The light neither brightened nor waned as we made our crocodile march down the narrow, timbered face fifteen or so feet before finding ourselves at the top of a stone stairway.

It was Judy who noticed the candlestick and box of matches. “A clue that we’re meant to go down,” she said, and to my relief Mrs. Malloy did not inform her that this was too obvious to bother mentioning.

“Oh, I do love clues,” said Molly from my immediate rear. “I’m actually enjoying this adventure.”

Judy lit the candle, put the matches in a hip pocket, and we began the downward procession.

“It is rather fun, isn’t it?” I could hear the smile in Livonia’s voice as we continued down, girded on both sides by walls that looked as though they had been around before Hadrian got busy doing his showing off. “Or maybe it’s just the relief of being out of the dining room, which I didn’t much like even before we got locked in.”

“New curtains could make a difference in there and everywhere else.” Alice also sounded chipper.

I thought of Witch Haven’s restful charm that could withstand Celia Belfrey’s personality. Cross as I might be with Mrs. Malloy, I couldn’t bear the thought of her living out her days at Mucklesfeld. Whatever was needed to restore both the structure and the spirit of the house could not be provided by even the most happily married couple, let alone two people brought together out of practicality or ambition. What the place needed was to be crammed as full of life as the hall and drawing room were currently full of furniture.

Having reached the bottom, we found ourselves in an empty cellar small enough to show itself reasonably clearly in the candlelight. No wine racks, filled or empty, no sprouting sacks of potatoes. The only thing to say for it was that it appeared dry-no lichen or mold on the walls. Indeed, the air smelled reasonably fresh. The faces of the other women seemed more clearly defined, more fleshed out than they had done in the dining room before the lights went out. I put that down to a reaction from the plunge into darkness, but then I felt the energy flowing from each of the contestants, with the exception of Mrs. Malloy, who suddenly looked all her sixty-some years.

Alice stood bundling her hair back up. “Georges and his crew have to be filming us through spy holes, otherwise where would be the fun for the viewing audience? May we all agree we’re showing the jokester that any one of us could deal with a crisis as Lady Belfrey?”

“Ellie found the way out of the dining room and she isn’t in the running,” Livonia reminded her.

Take that, Georges! You and your twisted hope of an uncontrollable passion arising between Lord Belfrey and a wedded woman!

“It’s not a bad cellar as such places go, but I’d love to get back out into the gardens.” Judy smiled ruefully. “Should we start prying apart the walls and floor?”

“Please don’t anyone think I’m pushing myself forward,” said Livonia at her most tentative, “but it seems to me that even without the candle we wouldn’t be in pitch dark, so there has to be a faint amount of light creeping in somehow, doesn’t there?”

“What if,” suggested Molly, who looked and sounded breezily confident, “those spy holes Alice mentioned are cracks between the stones in the wall? The ventilation they provide could explain why the cellar is dry.” Taking the candle from Judy, she paced left, then right-eyes shifting from walls to ceiling. “Maybe the cracks-even the widest of them-aren’t easy to see because they’re filmed over with cobwebs of the same gray as the stone. Except, of course, for the one being used to spy on us; that would likely be high up, even in the ceiling.”

“Knowing Georges, he would prefer looking down on us,” I said. “Also, he won’t want to be caught on the spot when we do manage to break out of here.”

“Okay, but even if there are cracks big enough to get our fingers into,” Mrs. Malloy stood a shade wobbly on her high heels and looking as though she’d have dearly liked to sit down and melt into the flagged floor, “how do they help us? Even if we could get a grip, stone’s not what you could call lightweight.” She and I share a gift for pointing out the obvious. “Unless,” she reenergized sufficiently to purse her lips and raise a black painted-on eyebrow, “a section of wall has been replaced with something made up to look just like the rest. You know, Mrs. H, one of them faux finishes you’re always going on about, now everyone’s wanting the insides of their semidetached to look like a Tuscan villa these days.”