Spider Light(35)
And there, at Twygrist’s dark core—
‘What in God’s name is that?’ said one of the voices, and Donna jumped nervously. She stole forward, hoping to see without being seen.
‘Just another cellar, isn’t it?’ said the inspector.
‘No, it’s doors,’ said someone, shining one of the torches. ‘In fact, steel doors, by the look of it.’
‘It’ll be the old kiln room,’ said Dawkins’ voice. ‘We’re most probably directly under the floor where they used to spread the grain to dry it out–the drying floor, they called it. You can’t see it from outside any more because they concreted over it years ago, but it’s a kind of flat roof near the ground at the back of the mill. It’s clay or terracotta or something like that, and it was made with hundreds of tiny holes.’ He paused as if waiting to see if anyone interrupted, and when no one did, went on, ‘They spread the grain over it, and then lit a fire down here directly underneath so the dry heat rose up and drove the moisture out of the grain. My grandfather used to farm around here, and he remembers it being done.’
‘And you reckon this kiln room’s on the other side of those doors?’
‘Seems logical, sir.’
‘So it does,’ said the inspector thoughtfully. Donna was keeping well back in the shadows, but she could see the men grouped around the doors.
‘We’re right at the heart of the building here,’ said the inspector. ‘So the kiln room is surrounded by all these other rooms. If a fire ever got out of hand, there’d be some protection.’
‘And,’ said Dawkins, ‘The steel doors seal it off.’ He paused and the inspector said, ‘And if the drying floor is concreted over, it’d be virtually airtight in there.’
The hot bad-smelling darkness seemed to gather its forces and jump out at them, and then in a completely different tone, the inspector said, ‘Get those bloody doors open now!’
The doors were not locked, and although there were indentations where handles must once have been, they had long since rusted off. The doors were wedged tight together and virtually seamless.
‘They open outwards,’ said the inspector after a moment. ‘But without the handles they’re as smooth as eggs–there’s nothing we can get hold of to pull them back. What we need here is a set of old-fashioned burglars’ tools.’
‘The jemmy principle, sir?’
‘Exactly. See if you can break off any sections of the old machinery to use as levers–anything that looks strong enough and thin enough.’
The cellars seemed to Donna to be filling up with panic, and the smooth-as-eggs doors began to take on a dreadfully sinister appearance. Airtight. Airtight… The clock was still beating out its rhythm, but the words of the rhythm had changed. Airtight…airtight…
The inspector’s voice cut through this horrid tattoo. ‘One of you had better go back upstairs and radio Area to ask about the availability of oxyacetylene cutters in case—Oh, wait though, it looks as if you’ve got some purchase on it at last. Don’t let it slip back!’
The door did not slip back. Its old hinges screeched like a thousand souls in torment, and the metal scraped protestingly against the rough and ready levers the men had inserted, but Donna saw it begin to swing outwards. Dry stale air gusted out, and something that had been huddled against the other side of the door fell forward.
‘Oh, God,’ said Donna, no longer bothering to remain hidden. She clapped both hands over her mouth as if to force back a scream or a sob. ‘Oh, God…’
They were both there. They must have been there all along–all the time. Four days. And the room had been airtight…
Maria Robards had fallen onto her back, and the glare of the torches showed up her terrible face. The skin she had taken such care of–beauty treatments at expensive salons, her insistence on buying the best make-up obtainable–was suffused with purple where the veins had swollen in her frenzied efforts to escape and the panic-filled struggle for air. Her eyes were wide open–bulging from their sockets–and the whites were stained crimson where the tiny capillaries had haemorrhaged.
She had taken care of her hands as well. Scented hand lotions, manicures, always wearing costly rings. The rings were still there, but the once-perfect nails were broken and the fingertips were crusted with blood where she had clawed at the heavy steel doors.
Donna’s father was not by the door; he was lying near the brick chimney. His face was turned away from the torchlight, but it was possible to see that his hands were also bruised and bloodied. Perhaps he had been trying to find a chink in Twygrist’s structure: a tiny tear in the fabric which could be widened to let in air. Perhaps he had not known where he was, though, and had been beating uselessly against the bricks, in the mad, dying belief that they were doors that could be forced open.
In a high strained voice, Donna said, ‘They’re both dead, aren’t they?’ and in the small enclosed space, her voice seemed to bounce back at her, mingling with the steady beating of the old clock.
There was the sound of the inspector’s voice, kindly and concerned. ‘Yes, my dear. I’m afraid they’re both dead.’
Both-dead…Both-dead… The clock snatched at that. Tick-tick, both-dead, tick-tick, twice-dead…