Property of a Lady(70)

‘Where did you study all this?’

‘I’d like to say I did a Fine Arts degree, but I didn’t,’ said Nell. ‘I got on to a training scheme with one of the big auction houses. Not Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but not far off. A great piece of luck for me. It was quite intensive – a three-year apprenticeship, half working in the showrooms, half in a kind of training school. I do love working with all these old things.’

‘I can tell,’ he said, smiling.

‘I’m trying to think Brooke Crutchley did, as well,’ said Nell. ‘I find it a bit spooky knowing he worked here, and I’m not sure if I like the sound of him very much. But it’s easier if I can think of him enjoying what he did.’

‘I can’t see anything in here to give us any leads to him, can you?’ said Michael, shining the torch over the walls and up into the roof space and the rafters.

‘No.’

‘Is that the old stove? I don’t blame you for not trying to fire it.’

‘I hate it,’ said Nell. ‘It’s like a monstrous black toad crouching in the corner.’

‘I should think it dates back to Brooke’s time,’ said Michael, inspecting the stove, which was cast iron, with small doors at the front and a flue stretching up into the roof.

‘It’s Victorian design at its most florid,’ said Nell. ‘I’m going to have it ripped out when there’s enough money and the vent capped outside.’

‘There’s a door on one side. Here, where the wall is set back a bit. It doesn’t look as if it leads anywhere, but it’s too large to be a cupboard.’

‘It’s not a cupboard. It’s just a kind of alcove for cleaning the flue and raking out cinders and clinkers and things. In the days when they had cinders and clinkers.’

‘Can I take a look?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Nell came to stand next to him as he opened the door, which was set into the wall about eight inches higher than the floor level. It stuck for a moment, then opened with a dry, scraping sound. A shower of black dust cascaded out, and the stench of ancient soot and dirt came out at them like a clutching hand. They both coughed and backed away.

‘It’s a disgusting smell, isn’t it?’ said Nell. ‘It’ll clear in a minute, though. Hold on, I’ll prop the door open.’

‘Have you ever looked in here?’

‘Well, I did when I bought the place. I only glanced inside to see what it was, though. When the survey was done, the guy said everything seemed sound, but he didn’t think I should fire the stove.’

‘I shouldn’t think you’d ever want to,’ said Michael, glancing back at the stove, which jutted malevolently out into the room. He leaned forward into the recess, shining his torch over the walls. It was a small space, barely four feet square, and even with the door propped back against the wall it was still thick with the smell of dry soot and dirt.

‘It’s a horrible place,’ said Nell as Michael leaned deeper in and moved the torch’s beam over the walls, which were lined with sheets of cast iron. The wall backing on to the stove was pitted with centuries of heat. ‘It’s like a coffin standing upright.’

‘That’s an odd analogy to make,’ he said, moving the torch over the walls and floor. ‘There’s nothing in here, though, in fact— Oh!’

‘What?’ Nell peered over his shoulder. ‘Michael, what have you found?’

‘Down there.’ Michael moved back to allow her to see.

‘It’s a trapdoor,’ said Nell, puzzled. ‘I didn’t know there was a trapdoor.’

‘If you only glanced in that once, I don’t suppose you would. And the floor’s thick with soot and dirt.’

‘There must be an old cellar down there,’ said Nell, staring at the oblong outline of the trapdoor. It was wooden and very solid-looking, with an iron ring handle, flush with its surface.

‘Might it just be some kind of underground storage vault – something to do with the stove again? Only, I can’t think what,’ said Michael.

‘It’s a very large trapdoor for a storage area.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Do you want to see if we can open it?’

‘No,’ said Nell. ‘But if we don’t, I’ll have nightmares wondering what might be down there.’

Michael climbed over the low section of wall and knelt down on the edge of the trapdoor. ‘There isn’t much room to manoeuvre,’ he said.

‘Give me the torch.’

‘Thanks. Shine it directly down, will you? That’s better.’ He reached for the ring handle. ‘It feels as if it’s rusted in place.’

‘Try it anyway.’ Nell was kneeling just outside the recess, directing the torch on to the oblong of solid oak. Cobwebs brushed against her face like ribbons of dead skin, and she shuddered.

‘It won’t budge,’ said Michael, after a moment. He sat back on his heels. ‘It feels as if it’s brass or iron, and it’s stuck fast.’

‘Try turning it. Both ways. It might be a twist mechanism.’

‘No good,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I don’t think it’s locked, though. I think it’s just bedded in with rust and age. The same goes for the hinges.’ He tugged the handle again, using both hands, turning first left and then right. ‘It’s absolutely solid,’ he said, sitting back on his heels and wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘Damn. Nell, it’ll take dynamite to get this open. Or an axe.’