Property of a Lady(72)

‘I’m at the bottom,’ he said. His voice echoed slightly and eerily. ‘There are ten steps, and they all seemed sound, but they’re very worn so make sure you don’t slip.’

‘Here I come,’ said Nell. ‘The smell’s clearing a bit now, I think. That’s something to be grateful for.’

But descending the stone steps was a grim experience. Once, thought Nell, someone lived here or worked down here – maybe was even held prisoner here – and whoever it was suffered such agonies of black and bitter despair, the feeling’s soaked into the walls. She remembered how Harriet Anstey had said Brank Asylum made her think of people drowning in the dark. That’s what it feels like down here, thought Nell, and for a moment she had to resist a compulsion to bolt back up the steps. But she reached the bottom of the steps and was grateful when Michael put an arm round her.

‘For warmth,’ he said.

‘Was I shivering?’

‘No, I was,’ said Michael.

The cellar was bigger than they had expected – a narrow but fairly long room that must stretch under the whole workshop and even extend under part of the courtyard. Nell had been expecting to see a traditional underground room, perhaps with a stone floor and walls, bare of anything saved the accumulated dirt of decades. But the room, although it was certainly stone, was not bare. It had been lived in. Standing against the walls were the remains of bookshelves – rotting and splintering with age, but recognizable.

‘There are still books on them,’ said Michael softly. ‘Dear God, look at them.’ He moved the torch, showing up rows of old yellowing books, many of them crumbled beyond retrieval, but some still with the leather or calf spines intact. Here and there a vagrant glint of lettering, perhaps once gold leaf, caught the light.

‘An underground study,’ said Nell in a whisper.

‘A secret library,’ said Michael. ‘Forbidden works, I should think.’

The torchlight moved again, and Nell felt as if something had slammed a clenched fist into her throat. She gasped, and in the same moment felt Michael’s hand tighten around hers.

At the far end of the cellar was a large writing desk, with a chair drawn up to it. Seated in the chair was the partly-mummified figure of what had once been a man. His head had fallen forward on to the desk, near an elaborate inkstand, and in the sweep of the torchlight it was possible to see the fragments of dried skin that clung to the rounded skull. Hands – not quite fleshless – reached across the desk, and Nell took a step backwards, because it was dreadfully easy to imagine the hands would suddenly move and reach out . . .

Michael said, very softly, ‘I think this is Elvira Lee’s nightmare man. Remember what she said to Harriet? That he had learned spells from the black marrow of the world’s history.’ He indicated the shelves. ‘I think these are those spells,’ he said. ‘This is where he studied them. That’s why he had to shut himself away down here.’

‘Brooke Crutchley,’ said Nell, unable to look away from the dreadful figure. ‘It must be. It can’t be anyone else.’

Michael took a cautious step towards the desk. Nell, who could not have approached that figure for all the money in the world, watched him.

‘Look at this,’ he said, in the same soft voice.

‘What is it?’

‘An oilskin packet. Sealed as well as anything could be sealed down here.’ He lifted it up gingerly. Showers of dust came away, and Nell shuddered.

‘Handwritten pages,’ said Michael, cautiously unwrapping the oilskin.

‘A diary?’

‘Some kind of record, at any rate. The top page is dated January 1880. Let’s take them upstairs and close this place up again. We can report what we’ve found in the morning – although I’m not sure who we actually report it to.’

‘I’d better phone Inspector Brent. He’d know the procedure.’ Nell’s eyes were on the oilskin package. She said, ‘But before we even attempt to look at those papers, let’s go back upstairs to the ordinary world and have a wash and a drink – oh, and something to eat.’

They were both so covered with dust and dirt that Nell suggested they took turns to shower.

‘And let’s eat your casserole before we even try reading those pages,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous and it smells terrific. I didn’t know it was such hungry work exploring subterranean rooms.’


For a moment there was an echo of Brad’s expression – I’m extraordinarily hungry – but it was a soft and benign echo. There was an intimacy in finding clean towels for Michael, then leaving him to open the wine while Nell showered after him. While she was doing so, he called through the bathroom door that he would check on the casserole if that was all right.

‘Give it a stir if it needs it,’ shouted Nell. ‘There’s a wooden spoon on the work surface somewhere.’ She pulled on clean trousers and a loose shirt, and padded down to the kitchen. Michael had stirred the casserole and had poured her a glass of wine. His hair was slightly damp from the shower, and Nell wanted to reach out to touch it. Instead, she ladled out the casserole and passed him the bread.

‘I think,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘that we might have found the – the core of the problem, don’t you? Down there in the cellar, I mean.’