Kerry Greenwood - Urn Burial

‘Then he will be looking for you,’ soothed Phryne.

‘That is so.’ Lin’s voice was firm again. ‘And he will find me. The trouble is, Silver Lady, that if we are missing together, people will make a certain deduction, and refrain from disturbing us.’

‘Hmm.’ Phryne’s mind raced. If this was the case, they might be in the cellar until dinner time. By then the water, fed by the flooded river as well as the spring, might have risen to the ceiling, drowning even that marble coffin with who knew what inside it. She had a moment of sheer superstitious panic, let it flow over her, and drank some more wine. The bottle was perceptibly lighter when she commented, ‘I wonder if there’s another way out of this cellar?’ She embraced Lin and stroked his cheek. He leaned his forehead on her shoulder, much as Gerald had done.

‘There might be. This is the sort of place to have secret passages.’

‘Yes, but one really needs light to find one. Let’s see. There must be candles somewhere and I’ve got matches in my pocket, how foolish of me.’

She drew out the box very carefully and lit one. By its light, she scanned the cellar, sighting what she wanted on top of a wine rack in the far corner.

‘Right. There’s a box of candles over there and no reason why we should sit in the dark. How many matches do we have?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Good. Come down and start striking.’

‘How will you get across?’ he asked as she headed toward the bottom of the stair.

‘I’ll wade.’

Phryne fought off a wave of revulsion and stepped down into the cold unclean water. She skirted the wall by the uncertain light of the match, knowing that somewhere in the middle was the well. The water was knee-deep now and freezing. Unseen objects rolled underfoot, threatening to fling her face down into the scum. She clung to the wine racks and reached the other side. There was a little light from a skylight of opaque glass barely a foot across.

There were eleven candles in the wooden box and a container of matches. She lit three tapers and instantly the dark was banished to lurk in the corners.

Across the expanse of black water she saw Lin Chung standing on the step shaking his burned fingers. She winced in sympathy.

‘There we are. Light. Now, what do we need to look at?’

‘The sarcophagus,’ he said bravely. Phryne sloshed across to it, steeled herself, and peered in.

‘Nothing, it’s empty. Hang about,’ she added, bringing the candle closer. ‘There’s a bit of crumpled fabric here, some fluid of some sort, and, erk, rather an awful smell. I think she’s been here, Lin, but she’s not here now. That’s a relief, eh? I’m going to have a look at the far wall. Back in a tick.’

‘I’m coming, too.’ Lin stepped down. Phryne smiled at him. In the flickering light, her eyes glowed as green as a cat’s. She gave him a taper and put the piece of material from the coffin in his pocket.

‘They never make women’s clothes with enough pockets,’ she complained, holding her candle high and clambering over crates and boxes.

‘Perhaps so that gentlemen with pockets can feel useful,’ said Lin, pushing aside what appeared to have been a wardrobe trunk for ocean travel before the sides had caved in.

‘Now, we are under the servants’ hall,’ reasoned Phryne. ‘This appears to be a boundary wall, what do you think?’

The weight of the house was pressing down on Lin Chung like a boulder on the back of his neck. He coughed, shook himself, and said, ‘Yes, it’s well built and it must be the outer surface of the house.’

‘Good, now for the other ones. What do you think has happened to the Major?’

‘I have no idea. He might have run away. Perhaps Miss Medenham and he could not agree and he rode off in a fit of pique. He might have fallen off his horse and not landed as lightly as you did, Silver Lady.’

‘Aha,’ said Phryne.

‘Aha?’

‘Come here, Lin, look at this stretch of wall. What’s different about it?’

‘It’s brick,’ he said. ‘The other walls are stone.’

‘It’s brick and it’s decorated,’ she said, feeling along tuck-pointing and around white mortared borders. ‘Look for the pattern which doesn’t match the rest of the wall.’

‘Here,’ he said, puzzled, laying a palm on slimy bricks laid lengthwise and criss-crossing. ‘This is the only part like this.’

‘Good. Now pull, push and twiddle everything which looks twiddleable.’

Lin obeyed long enough for his candle to burn down. Phryne gave him another one.

‘This is futile,’ he protested. ‘The water’s rising.

Hadn’t we better go back up the stairs?’

‘In a little while.’ Phryne, the water almost at her hips, pounded a likely-looking brick, then leaned on a particularly careless obtrusion of mortar. Nothing happened and the water continued to rise.

‘Dammit,’ she muttered. ‘You’re right. Let’s go back.’

He reached out to take her hand as she began to clamber over a fallen dresser which might have been designed for Alfred the Great. She slipped, slid, and fell against the wall, swearing in a variety of languages.

‘ Dommage ,’ she said as he hauled her to her feet. ‘Now I’m wet through, and all for nothing. It was a silly idea, Lin.’

He did not answer. The bricks groaned. Lin dropped his candle and flung himself against a moving wall. A dark crack widened and then the door gave way.

Phryne, Lin Chung, and a thousand gallons of water spilled out of the cellar of Cave House into light.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Darkness and light divide the course of time, and

oblivion shares with memory a great part of our

living beings; we slightly remember our felicities, and

the smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smart

upon us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows

destroy us or themselves.

Urn Burial , Sir Thomas Browne, Chapter V.

IT WASN’T as bright as sunlight. Phryne hooked her fingers over an iron projection and Lin Chung was flung against her by the force of the water, almost carrying them both along with the stream. He grabbed another iron rung and Phryne spared one hand to grasp at his shoulders, bringing her feet up out of the water.

‘A life on the rolling wave,’ she commented. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Wet but undamaged. How about you?’

‘Wetter but also undamaged.’ She released her hold as the first rush of water drained away. ‘Where are we? Some sort of tunnel?’

‘Let’s find out where it leads,’ suggested Lin Chung. Phryne heard the steely control in his voice and led the way down a paved stone passage like a stormwater drain. The light was honest daylight. Twenty paces revealed that the opening was narrow, perhaps three feet wide. Phryne ducked to go under the lip and found herself in a small sandy bay, knee-deep in a fast-moving stream. She grabbed for Lin and warned, ‘Look out! This must be the river!’

He climbed carefully up the bank and lifted Phryne out of the water, setting her down beside him. She felt him draw a huge breath of relief. She groped for her cigarettes and found, to her delight, that the case was waterproof. Lin lit their last match and she inhaled gratefully. She was wet through, slimy and mouldy, but unhurt, and her Chinese companion was revealed to be a brave man. That, she thought, was worth a ducking. The sun shone weakly in a pale-blue sky and Phryne was dazzled after so long in the dark. The air smelt delightfully of wet grass and horses.

‘There’s Cave House,’ Lin said. ‘There’s the stables, and there’s Mr Reynolds.’

‘Phryne dear, what have you been doing?’ asked Tom Reynolds, reigning on his hack, apparently much astonished by their appearance.