Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(35)

Porringer nudged the torch with his foot, so that the light fell more fully into the room, and gestured to us to move back to the wall. The furnace was on our left, and as the light fell across it, I saw that it had a round door, held in place by a long steel rod, placed diagonally and thrust into grooves. The rod would make a good weapon, but I could not see any means of snatching it from the door without Porringer seeing.

He seemed in no hurry to shoot us. Clearly he was relishing having the legendary Sch?nbrunn at his mercy, and would no doubt brag about it to his paymasters in Berlin.

Sch?nbrunn said, ‘What exactly is this place? Come now, Porringer, if this is to be our tomb, you can at least tell us where we are.’ He took an unobtrusive step towards the furnace, and my heart skipped a beat, because I knew he, too, had marked the steel rod.

‘We’re in the bowels of Deadlight Hall,’ said Porringer.

‘What is – or was – Deadlight Hall?’

Porringer gave a small shrug, and said, ‘A hundred years ago this house was a cross between an orphanage for the bastards of the rich and respectable, and what used to be called an Apprentice House. A sort of hostel for the orphans who were brought up here and sent to work in the local industries. As a matter of fact an ancestress of mine ran the place. Maria Porringer was her name.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought this part of the country would have much industry,’ I said, strongly aware of Sch?nbrunn taking another step nearer to the furnace, and wanting to keep Porringer’s attention on me.

‘There was more than you’d think,’ he said. ‘In particular there was a glass-making manufactory. Salamander House it was called. Most of the children who lived here worked there. It’s long since gone, of course.’

‘This house has a bad feeling. As if violent things have happened here.’

‘Oh, the locals will spin you any number of stories about Deadlight Hall,’ said Porringer. ‘No one will live here. It’s been empty for years, and—’

The sentence was never finished. Sch?nbrunn dived for the furnace door, seizing the steel rod and dragging it free, so that the door creaked slightly then began to swing open.

Faced with two victims in separate parts of the room, Porringer fired at me, but I had already dropped flat to the floor. (I may not be as resourceful as Sch?nbrunn, but I do have some instincts.) The bullet went harmlessly over my head and into the wall behind me. Tiny chips of stone and plaster flew out.

Sch?nbrunn did not waste time; he simply threw the steel bolt directly at Porringer. It caught the man a glancing blow and although it did not actually disable him, he instinctively threw up one hand in defence. In doing so the gun fell from his hands, clattering to the floor, and Sch?nbrunn snatched it up at once. Porringer bounded towards him, but then – I could not quite see how it happened – his body jerked abruptly backwards as if a string had been looped around his neck and tugged hard. He fell back, against the furnace, banging his head on its side. The round cover, already released by the removal of the steel rod, flew open, revealing the black yawning interior. Porringer scrabbled to get back to his feet, but he was slightly stunned by the blow to his head, and he could not get up.

Sch?nbrunn levelled the gun at his head. ‘Tell us where the Reiss twins are,’ he said, but Porringer seemed not to hear or understand. He was still half lying against the furnace, but he had grasped the rim of the opening and was using it as a lever to push himself back to his feet.

‘Listen to me, Porringer,’ said Sch?nbrunn very coldly. ‘If you don’t tell me where the Reiss twins are, I will shoot you in each ankle.’

Porringer shook his head, although whether in refusal or because he was trying to clear his head, I have no idea. I was in fact bracing myself for the sound of gunshot when the open furnace cover suddenly swung back, as if someone had pushed it to shut it. It was a massive, thick slab of iron and it crunched against Porringer’s head and on to his hands, which were still grasping the edges, knocking him halfway into the furnace’s mouth, and trapping him. He gave a dreadful grunting cry, and I sprang forward, grasping the edge of the door to pull it back.

‘Help me,’ I said to Sch?nbrunn, desperately. ‘It won’t move – it’s stuck – or the hinge has broken, or something. But it’s so heavy – it’s smashed the back of his skull half open—’

Sch?nbrunn thrust the gun in his belt and knelt next to me, at the side of the furnace. ‘Porringer,’ he said, ‘can you hear us? Listen then, if you tell me where the Reiss twins are, I’ll free you, I swear. I’ll get the door up somehow and we’ll get you out, and get you to an infirmary. But first tell me where they are.’

Porringer was struggling, and blood was dripping from his hands, which were trapped between the edges of the door, and he was shouting for help, his cries echoing hollowly from within the furnace.

But when Sch?nbrunn rapped out that question, Porringer said, ‘Damn you, no!’

‘For pity’s sake, man—’

‘You’ll only – shoot me – as a spy …’ The words were slurred and distorted and blood was running from his neck. Sch?nbrunn and I exchanged glances.

‘You won’t necessarily be shot,’ said Sch?nbrunn. ‘You could change sides. Become a double agent. I’d help you.’ I knew he would have promised Porringer almost anything to find out what had happened to the twins. ‘Where’s the torch?’ he said to me, urgently. ‘Shine it on to the door’s hinges. Between us we can lever it open, surely.’