Tom Knox - The Genesis Secret

Rob and Christine exchanged a melancholy glance. But Dooley and Forrester were not, it seemed, so easily disheartened. Forrester gave the principal the essence of the Burnchapel story, and the Cloncurry search. Rob sensed, by the way he phrased his monologue, that he was trying not to say too much lest he totally confuse and frighten the man. Even so, by the end of the explanation, the principal looked both confused and frightened. At last he said, 'Extraordinary. So you think these people were looking for the secret stairs? Mentioned in Portrait?'

'Yes,' said Christine. 'Which means we're probably too late. If the gang didn't find anything that means there's nothing here. Merde.'

The principal shook his head, vigorously. 'Actually, there was no need for them to break in. They could have just come to one of our open days.'

'You what?'

'It's not a mystery. Not at all. Yes there was a secret staircase here, but it was uncovered in 1999. During the major refurbishment. It's now the main service stairs at the back of the building. There's nothing secret about it these days.'

'So the gang looked in the wrong place?' Dooley said.

Matthewson nodded. 'Well, yes. I imagine they did. What a cruel irony! They could have just come and asked me where the secret staircase was, and I would have told them. But I guess that's not the modus operandi of these gangs, is it? Polite inquiry? Well, well.'

'So where are the stairs?' Rob asked.

'Follow me.'

Three minutes later they were at the rear of the building, staring at a narrow wooden staircase that led from the ground floor to a kind of mezzanine level. The staircase was dark and badly lit, hemmed in by sombre oak panelling on either side.

Rob crouched over the wooden planks. He rapped the lowest tread of the stairs with his knuckles. The sound was disappointingly solid. Christine rapped the second tread.

The principal leaned over with an anxious expression. 'What are you doing?'

Rob shrugged. 'I just thought, if there is something hidden it must be under one of the treads. So if I hear a hollow sound, maybe…'

'You intend to rip up the stairs?'

'Yes.' Rob said. 'Of course. What else?'

The principal blushed. 'But this is one of the most protected buildings in Dublin. You can't just come in here and take a crowbar to the fittings. I'm so sorry I do understand your predicament but…'

Rob scowled, and sat down on the stairs, trying to repress his anger. Forrester had a short private discussion with Dooley, who turned to Matthewson. 'You know, it looks like it could do with a lick of paint.'

'Sorry?'

'The stairs,' said Dooley. 'Bit spartan. Need a touch-up.'

The principal sighed. 'Well of course we didn't have enough money to do everything. The plasterwork in the hallway took most of the funds.'

'We have,' said Dooley.

'What?'

'We have the money, the Gardai. If we have to crack a few stair-rods in pursuit of a legitimate inquiry we will of course reimburse your college for any damage.' Dooley patted Matthewson on the back. 'And I think you will find that police refunds can be very generous.'

Matthewson managed a smile. 'Enough to repair and paint a few stairs? And maybe a classroom or two?'

'Oh I should think so.'

The principal's smile broadened: he seemed intensely relieved. 'OK. I think I can explain that to the Trustees. So yes, let's do it.' He paused. 'Though I wonder if you are actually looking in quite the right place.'

'You have another idea?'

'Tentatively…Just a notion.'

'Tell us!!'

'Well. I've always thought…' He lifted his gaze up the stairs. 'I have sometimes wondered why this little stairway dog-legs at the top. See there, look, it just turns about. At the top. For no apparent architectural reason. Annoying if you are carrying lots of books: you can trip. It's so dark. We had a student break an ankle just this Christmas.'

Rob was already running up the stairs with Christine after him. The stairs did indeed turn. They led up to a panelled wall and then shifted abruptly left. Rob stared at the panelled wall, then slapped it. It sounded hollow.

They all looked at each other. Matthewson was now noticeably flushed. 'Extraordinary! I guess we need to open it up and have a look? We've got a chisel and a flashlight in the cellar, I'll just go and fetch-'

'Bugger that.'

Reaching in his pocket, Rob produced a Swiss Army Knife and unclasped the sturdiest blade.

Christine, Dooley, Forrester and Matthewson were silent as Rob slammed the blade straight into the panel. The wood was easily pierced. It was thin, like a false panel. Rob rotated the blade to get some purchase, then sliced down and the panel began to give way. Forrester reached in and grabbed the corner of the wooden square, and the two men peeled the complete, yardwide section from its frame.

A dark, receding alcove lay beyond, and a musty smell exhaled from the blackness. Rob leaned in, and rummaged. 'Jesus. It's dark, it's too dark…I can't see…'

Christine took out her mobile phone, switched on the phonelight and flashed it into the hidden space, over Rob's shoulder.

Rob and Forrester stared; Dooley swore; Christine put a shocked hand to her mouth.

Right at the back of the alcove, swathed in cobwebs and grey dust, was a large and very battered leather box.

Reaching in to the echoey darkness, and slightly grunting from the exertion, Rob pulled the box along the planks and dragged it onto the stairway.

The round, flat-topped box was made of ancient leather, cracked, worn and battered black leather. It had the distinct air of something from the eighteenth century, something aristocratic. Like the luggage of a lord on the Grand Tour. The case seemed to match the architectural style of the house wherein it had lain, secretly concealed, for so long.

The box was also covered with thick cobwebby dust. Christine brushed way the top layers of grease and dirt, and a series of letters and words appeared on the lid, inscribed in a thin, delicate gold:

TW, Anno Domini. 1791

The lovers exchanged glances. Christine said, 'Thomas Whaley.'

'Before he went to Israel. And became Jerusalem Whaley…'

The principal of the college was looking agitated. Hopping from one elegantly-shod foot to another. 'Guys, look, sorry, but do you mind if we take this somewhere else? We have students coming up and down these stairs all the time, and…Not sure I want all the…brouhaha?'

Forrester and Dooley saw the point; they all agreed to shift elsewhere. Rob picked up the box again, holding it like a drum in front of him. The box wasn't that heavy: just unwieldy. Something quite large was rattling inside it. He tried to hold it as steady as possible as they walked. Every second that passed, every second they wasted, he thought of Lizzie. Every second took her closer to death.

Rob was finding it hard not to shout at people; setting his jaw into determined silence, he followed Principal Matthewson up the rest of the stairs and along a short corridor. And then at last they were in a bright, elegant office: the principal's study, overlooking the trees and sunlit lawns of St Stephen's Green.

Forrester glanced through the windows at Sally and Boijer sitting there, on a bench, in the Green. Waiting. 'Just a moment,' he said. He took out his mobile.

The box was clunked on Mathewson's desk, sending a cloud of dust flying out of the venerable leather casing.

'OK,' said Dooley. 'Let's open it.'

Christine was already examining the box. 'These old straps and buckles,' she muttered, trying one. 'They won't undo.'

Dooley struggled with another buckle. 'Totally rusted.'

Rob stepped forward, his knife out. 'My daughter is waiting!' He knelt and slashed the straps open. The very last strap was the toughest of all: he had to saw at it for a while: viciously; then at last it gave up, and flopped away.