The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(27)
He frowned, despising how his mind worked. But what was he supposed to think, given the Marauder’s Roost’s past?
Determined to prove himself wrong, he dropped to one knee and yanked the bolt on the cellar door free with both his hands. There was only one way to find out.
The iron rod shifted, rigid steel scraping against its fortified braces and sliding upward, then sideways, offering meager resistance, a telltale sign the opening was used often. He raised the bothersome closure to its full height, carefully maintaining his grip so the portal didn’t crash down to the floor. One slip and the inhabitants of the inn would come rushing upon him.
One look at the staircase leading from the kitchen to the second floor assured Walsingham he was still alone and free to continue his search. He lifted the brace that was tucked into the tunnel’s open mouth and hooked it on the door facing. Assured the opening was now securely fastened, he looked down into the cellar’s dark interior.
A ladder descended approximately eight feet. If Girard and O’Malley used the tunnels to aid Miss Thorpe in transporting her ale deliveries, it was easy to assume someone might slip inside the Roost through the opposite entrance at the shore. Unless the gate on the other end was locked.
With the ease of a man used to slinking through dark, confined spaces, Walsingham approached the fire. There, he retrieved a lighted piece of furze, and slowly prowled the kitchen, cautiously looking around until he found an iron-latticed lamp hanging on a hook. He removed the lamp, careful not to create any sound that would draw attention. He opened the lamp cage and used the fiery furze to ignite the wick, then tossed the dried grass back into the fire.
With as much care as his bulky form could manage, he retraced his steps to the cellar doorway and descended the cellar ladder, breathing a sigh of relief when his feet hit the granite surface. Memories of the night he’d fought his way up through the tunnels and into the Roost’s cellar—through and past Carnage’s desperate men—assailed him. Armed and determined to protect their commander’s retreat, Carnage’s crew had fought hard, hacking through the fray, not caring who they bloodied in the process. But charging up from shore and pushing Carnage’s men backward had its advantages. Using that momentum, Walsingham had fought like a man possessed, not knowing yet imagining what had happened to his sister, frightful images of her dead body torturing him with abandon.
Squeak.
Walsingham shifted his feet and shuddered.
Christ! Rats!
He’d hated rats from the moment he’d seen them feasting on Midshipman Jellet’s shredded flesh belowdecks eight years ago. Cursing the scabrous creatures, he raised the lantern and lifted the lid, turning the wick to a fuller glow. As light illuminated the cellar, he angled the lamp around the cavern, plagued by thoughts that had troubled him for years. What did the haunting memories do for him now? Chloe was safe. He and Underwood had saved her life.
Walsingham glanced around the cellar, inhaling the cool, musty air and wondering how Miss Thorpe’s merchandise fared in such a climate. Icy cold gripped him next as the veined walls of the twelve-by-twelve-foot cellar closed in.
He lifted the lantern, blinking back the atrocities of his past as the cramped, hulled-out granite interior illuminated in his mind’s eye once more. Dazedly, he took a few steps, determination fueling his limbs. He angled the lantern, studying a shelf of homemade jams, butter, vinegar, pickles, and boxes of salt all neatly lined up in rows.
The cellar was well organized, tidy, and fitting to an innkeeper’s lifestyle. Except this innkeeper hailed from one of Cornwall’s most ruthless smuggling families.
You mustn’t judge a book by its cover, Brother, Chloe’s favorite admonishment chided him.
He fixed his attention on a shelf with empty baskets stacked three or more high. Beside them sat large porcelain jars and barrels of fresh water, situated closely to casks of French brandy, Portuguese Madeira, Scottish whisky, port, and rum. These were not unusual provisions for a tavern owner, barring an import ban and being procured by nefarious means.
Light cast shadows as he stretched the lantern over several more casks and then aimed it on bushels of tightly packed grain. Barley, wheat, and rye nestled against watertight bundles of tobacco, tea, homespun wool, and fine cloth bearing the mark of the East India Trading Company. He picked up a pack of tobacco and flipped it over until an inked stamp materialized in the lamplight.
“Legal as a barrister’s quill.” He returned the pack to its former place.
The merchandise had definitely been to the assize office, where customs officers collected taxes on imported goods. Apparently not every Thorpe was a thieving wrecker, after all.
Walsingham smiled, content that the cellar’s contents had been collected by legal means.
Footsteps.
“Jarvis?” he whispered.
A stirring of rock.
He turned, just barely avoiding being bludgeoned by a miner’s pick. He reacted, veering sideways, and lost his grip on the lantern. It fell, landing in one piece on several bags of highly flammable tobacco. Christ! If the lantern broke before he could retrieve it, a fire would ignite, and fed by the liquor and tobacco stored in the cellar, the fire would cause the entire inn to explode, killing everyone sleeping inside.
His assailant gave him no time to remedy the situation, though. He came hard and fast, his momentum forcing Walsingham back into the shelf. Produce jars clanked loudly behind his head then tumbled to the ground, breaking, as Walsingham wrestled with his attacker. He grabbed the pick’s shaft, pushing against it with all his might to keep from being impaled as it pressed into his throat, cutting off his air.