EG02 - The Lost Gardens (26 page)

Inside the pulpit, his knees were barely three inches from the wood panel. Yet looking down from his height, he could see that the front of the pulpit extended several inches beyond that. Why on earth hadn’t he thought of it before? In the old days, bookcases were often constructed that way. Shelving on the front of the case and behind it a hidden space of several inches, neatly concealed, usually by a self-locking hinged back. The optical illusion was almost impossible to spot. Only the most perceptive eye would notice that the side dimension was somewhat deeper than that suggested by the front view where the books backed up to the rear panel. In fact, with books filling the shelves, it was almost impossible to tell that there was a false back to the case.

Now on his hands and knees, inside the pulpit, Kingston traced the panel in front of him with the tips of his fingers. If he was right—and he was now certain that he was—there was a way of removing or swinging out the inner panel. The carpenter who had crafted the pulpit had been skilled in cabinet making because all edges of the panel were perfectly butted against those on the three sides and the underside of the lectern. Barely a hair’s breadth separated them. How did it work? There were no hinges or spaces where a finger could be inserted under the panel. It had to work with pressure, he figured. He placed his hands squarely on the centre of the panel and pushed. Nothing happened. He tried doing the same thing to the base of the panel, the sides and the top centre of the panel, all with no success.

He stood and stepped back for a moment. If he had constructed the pulpit, where would he have positioned the opening device? Certainly not at the bottom because that could easily be kicked, as it doubtlessly was over many decades. Same with the centre of the panel, where a heavy person’s knee could accidentally bump into it. It had to be located somewhere at the very top, underneath the lectern. But there was no space underneath. The sloping top was a solid piece of oak.

On his haunches, Kingston eyed the smooth panel facing him. It was almost as if it was taunting him. He took his time, placing his left-hand thumb on the top left corner. Then he did the same with his right-hand thumb on the opposite corner, careful to line it up at the same level. He leaned forward and applied equal pressure with both thumbs. ‘Damn,’he muttered. Leaving his thumbs in place, he relaxed for a moment and this time pushed much harder. A small click and the panel fell forward resting on his hands. ‘Gotcha!’ he said.

Gently, he lowered the wooden panel to the floor of the pulpit. Now he was looking at the unfinished back of the pulpit’s front panel. He saw it immediately; an oval iron handle, the size of drawer-pull, in the centre of the panel. He slipped three fingers inside it and pulled. He didn’t have to pull very hard. A muted clanking sound echoed around the bare walls. He let go of the handle and took four steps to the front pew.

Gripping the end rail with both hands, offering a prayer of sorts, he closed his eyes and lifted. With an ease that he least expected, the pew started to rise. He opened his eyes and watched with amazement. The motion was unbelievably smooth and silent. In a matter of seconds it finally came to rest at a ninety-degree angle to the floor.

It was exactly as he had pictured. In front of him was a rectangular opening in the flagstones. At his feet, a flight of stone steps disappeared into the darkness below.

Chapter Twenty-one

Flashlight in hand, Kingston entered the catacombs. Being a touch claustrophobic, he prayed that the tunnels or corridors—whatever was down there—would not be too cramped. He was aware that in the Middle Ages men were a lot shorter, and his six-foot-plus height could become a handicap. At first, he’d questioned the wisdom of exploring the underground by himself but, after weighing the pros and cons, he convinced himself that the risk was minimal. In any case, after all he’d done to get to this momentous point the impulse to explore was overwhelming.

He’d already made sure that the pew was stable, unlikely to fall. An examination of the latch indicated that it could be released from below. The idea of being accidentally trapped down there was unnerving but as far as he could tell there was no likelihood of that happening. If the flashlight batteries started to go, he would have sufficient time to retrace his steps before they died altogether.

It was more than a dozen steps down before he reached the foot of the stone stairway. An uneasy feeling passed over him. It was as if he were about to leave the twenty-first century and the real world. Shining the light around, he saw a long tunnel ahead, more like a hall since the construction was rectilinear. To his relief the ceiling looked tall enough for him to navigate without crouching. Even so, his head grazed the ceiling where he was standing. Both walls and ceiling were of greyish stone blemished in places with calcareous ochre and chalky deposits. The floor was a simple cobblestone. Every twenty feet or so, a single stone projected from the wall at a level with Kingston’s head. Judging from the caked layers of wax, these were clearly candle sconces. The air was cool and stale-smelling, not dank as he had expected. The smell was not unpleasant, vaguely herbal, which was not surprising since he knew that herbs were often used in medieval times to repel insects and vermin.

About twenty steps farther down the hall, he came to a small room on his right. The simple wooden door was ajar. Pushing it open with his foot, he shone the flashlight around the space. It was empty. Another ten feet along was a second room, this time on the left. This space was considerably larger and the ceiling higher than that of the first room. A low partition divided the room in two and a mezzanine projected eight feet or so from the back wall. Kingston took it for a workshop or storage area. Soon he reached another room, much like the last one but the door was iron-bound and had a lock with a bronze escutcheon. Inside were the remains of what had once been heavy wooden racks of some kind. Aware that the production of wine and mead was a popular and profitable pastime for the monks, Kingston speculated that this room was a storage cellar for wine casks. He smiled to himself—hence the lock.

Passing two more empty rooms he came to a junction. The hall continued but also headed off to the left and right, offering three choices. At this point, he judged that he was well over a hundred feet into the labyrinth. Its sheer size and complexity was far more than anything he’d ever imagined and there was obviously more to come.

In the next fifteen minutes, he explored both the left and right hallways, which in turn led to others, and more rooms of differing size, most of them empty and all unlocked. It was a reasonable assumption, he decided, that the rooms he’d seen so far were used either for storage, work or sleeping.

Venturing farther into the maze—marvelling at its size and accomplishment—he suddenly realized that he hadn’t been paying attention to directions. Getting lost hadn’t crossed his mind till now and there were few, if any, markers. He was beginning to wish he’d left some of his own but it was too late for that now.

He glanced at his watch: almost six thirty. He’d been down there for close to half an hour. Had he covered the entire labyrinth, he wondered? Hard to tell. Regardless, he decided to go back to the chapel. He could return later with Jamie, maybe Ferguson, too—Roger would go bananas when he saw it. Doubtless, it would be considered among the most significant British archaeological discoveries of the century. The first job was to rig up some temporary lighting—a challenge, even with the length of the hallways he’d covered already.

From that first rush of excitement and trepidation, when he had stepped into the dark unknown of the catacombs, until now, Kingston had forgotten his principal goal: to find Ryder’s secret hiding place—the room or vault where he stored the paintings that were shipped from France. Now he was experiencing a sinking feeling at the prospect of having to face up to the bitter disappointment of discovering that, after coming this far, there was no such place. That he’d been wrong about Ryder all along. How many rooms were still unexplored? There was no way of knowing. But at least there were
some
. So there was hope yet. If one of his earlier theories held water, then there could well be a good reason for his not having uncovered anything so far.

When all else failed, Kingston fell back on what he called his ‘crossword puzzle logic’—teasing answers from confusing and complicated clues. His fundamental premise was that, once, there had been two ways of entering the catacombs: one through the chapel, the other from somewhere in the house. He had searched the house but that proved little. Knowing, now, how cleverly the chapel entrance was designed, he would have been surprised if he
had
found anything. His conclusion was that a secret entrance via the house still existed, or it had long since been sealed and—unless the house was dismantled piece by piece—would be all but impossible to find now. If the latter
were
true, then it would suggest that, at one point during his days at Wickersham, Ryder might have given up trading in art. He could have had a falling out with Girard; the market in high-priced paintings had crashed in the early nineties and values had decreased by as much as half at some auctions. Another likelihood: with all the recent publicity and attention focused on stolen art, it became too risky a venture. He could think of many reasons for Ryder having gone straight.

Given these presuppositions it was not surprising he had found nothing yet that resembled a secret storage area. If such a place existed, it would probably be closer to the house than the chapel. Sound or not, this conclusion bolstered his optimism as he found his way back to the chapel. He reminded himself to bring a compass on his next visit.

Kingston lowered the pew and watched it drop back into place with a dull clank. For a few seconds, he stood and stared, admiring its simplicity. Considering its age, it was a remarkable piece of engineering. He went to the pulpit and returned the panel to its original position, concealing the release latch. Picking up his tool bag, he started up the aisle. At the door, he stopped. It was … open. He stood for a moment looking around the interior, certain that he had closed the door when he first arrived at the chapel. He even remembered wondering whether he should lock it or not. And just before stepping down into the catacombs, he had checked it again, to make sure. Someone had been there. And that someone now knew the secret of the chapel.

Back at the cottage, Kingston picked up the phone and called Jamie. For the next several minutes he told her about his discovery, describing precisely how he had found the hidden latch, about the pew, and what the catacombs were like. After he was finished, she congratulated him, offering a thin apology for doubting him. She wanted him to take her there that very minute, but Kingston managed to dissuade her using the late hour and absence of lighting as an excuse. They agreed to meet at eight thirty in the morning, giving him time to rig up temporary lighting and be better equipped to explore. Kingston waited till the end of the conversation to ask the all-important question.

‘Was anyone looking for me this afternoon, after I left you? Anyone come to the house?’

She paused before answering. ‘Only Roger Ferguson.’

‘Ferguson?’

‘Yes. He came back to get his camera. He’d left it on the coffee table. The thing’s so tiny, I’m not surprised, he should have kept it in his pocket.’

‘Did he leave right away?’

‘What are you getting at, Lawrence? Yes, I suppose he left right away. I didn’t look out of the window to see if he drove off, if that’s what you mean.’ She paused. ‘Why, is it important?’

‘I don’t know, it could be. It’s just that I believe there was someone in the chapel while I was down below.’

Unlike the gloomy day before, it was a sparkling morning when Kingston left the cottage at eight o’clock on Tuesday. Despite the prospect of a warm day, he wore his old wax jacket over a wool turtleneck knowing how cool it was down in the catacombs. He had told Jamie to dress warmly, too.

Walking up the path to the house he stopped and bent down to study the leaves of the yellow
Alchemilla mollis
that spilled over the gravel. Each leaf resembled a delicate bone china cup, filled with a teaspoon of rainwater. The sight never failed to stop him in his tracks, in awe and joy at this sculpture of nature.

Last night, after his fifteen-minute dinner, catered by the local fish and chip shop and washed down with two glasses of Pinot Grigio, he had dwelled on the fallout that would ensue when word of the discovery of the old priory’s underground rooms hit the press. Wickersham would become a madhouse. Every newspaper, magazine and TV station would be clamouring to take pictures, demanding interviews, letting nothing get in their way in order to get a front-page story.

His mind flashed back to a conversation that had taken place two years ago, in Alex and Kate Sheppard’s living room, when he had told them that the blue rose they had just discovered in their garden was about to turn their world upside down and that their lives would be forever changed. The chapel and the circumstances surrounding Wickersham were different, but nevertheless pandemonium could and certainly would break loose unless immediate steps were taken to head off such a catastrophe. Word would spread like wildfire and the resulting media frenzy on top of all the local nosy parkers could have a devastating effect on the gardens, not to mention Jamie’s privacy and life in general on the estate. He would have to sit down with her right away and draw up a plan of action. First they would have to inform the local council members, the police and emergency services. Controlling the influx of traffic would be the first problem to address. He could think of a dozen others.

When would he tell Ferguson? In fairness, he should be among the first to know. But how much did he know already, Kingston wondered? It could have been him at the chapel yesterday. He admitted to being on the estate before, the time when Kingston and Jamie were gone. The more he thought about it, the more the idea of Roger’s going behind his back seemed ludicrous—totally out of character. The man was an archivist, a scholar. Naturally he would have an all-consuming interest in such a discovery. For him, this was a once-in-a-lifetime historical and archaeological breakthrough in which he was directly involved. That said, Kingston couldn’t dismiss entirely the suspicion that Ferguson knew more than he was admitting.