Escaping Notice (26 page)

Then he caught sight of a dark rectangle halfway along the
remaining wall. His heart beat faster with excitement — perhaps it
was a doorway to the mysterious side-building he had yet to
explore. There might even be a secret room. Failing that, there was
the chunky tower. No one would dare to search there.

He clambered over the uneven, broken floor, glancing up every
few feet to orient himself.

As he got closer, he thought his heart would burst with
anticipation. He was right, it was a door. A thick wooden door,
leaning drunkenly ajar. Only the bottom hinge remained and a few
heavy blocks, carved with a design oddly similar to the vines
growing over them, rested against the base. The sight brought him
to a nervous halt. He eyed them, conscious of a flicker of fear. In
the dim light, the pitted, rounded surface was shaped like the
snout of some hideous monster, crouched against the door, waiting
for the unaware.

Anything could hide amongst the twining vines.

He glanced over his shoulder at the sky. A band of flaming red
and yellow marked the horizon. It would be completely dark soon.
The rock monster seemed to stir within its nest of leaves as a band
of dark blue clouds passed over the red horizon.

Red clouds at night, sailor's delight
.

The color of the sky was good luck, and there were no monsters
waiting for him in the darkness. Even if there were, the necklace
would be extra safe with them protecting it. He just had to hide it
and escape before the sun went down completely.

He could run faster than any stone monster.

Fixing his eyes firmly on the door, he studied it, determined to
ignore whatever hid in the jumble of shadows against the wall.
If you do not act afraid, nothing will bother you
. He could
not remember who had given him the advice, but it sounded excellent
now. The wooden panels inset in the door were already rotten, but
even so, he could see it was still at least three inches thick. His
confidence faltered.

The leaves around the stone monster stirred in a faint breeze —
or he hoped it was just the wind.

He pushed at the door. It would not budge. Then he caught sight
of the rusty hinges.
Puddinghead
. It opened towards him, and
the rocks held it fast in its frame. He kicked it sharply, but the
wood held firm. The door’s annoying refusal to yield heightened his
determination to break into the room beyond it and climb the tower.
Glancing around, he found a sharp-edged rock that fitted
comfortably in his hands.

Armed with the rock, he assaulted the top of the door. The wood
was already crumbling, and he was rewarded by a small piece
breaking off at his second stroke. He examined it with satisfaction
before beating even harder, smashing the stone repeatedly against
the stubborn door.

The process was slow and his arms were throbbing with the
effort, but he soon had a large, jagged hole in the upper left
corner of the door. He stuck his head through. It was barely wide
enough to admit his body, but he wriggled his shoulders and managed
to squirm through.

The room beyond was dark and filled with rubble from the
collapsed roof. His heart beat faster. In the corner, stone steps
rose — the entrance to the tower!

He moved forward cautiously, unsure what might be in the room
with him. The last of the light was fading, and he could not take
his mind off the stone monster — or even demon — crouching just
outside the door. Something worse might live in here, just waiting
for the first person to venture into the room.

The floor beneath his feet creaked. He glanced down with
surprise. Instead of flagstones, this room had wooden floors. He
wondered briefly if it might be rotted, like the door, but the part
of the wood wedged behind the stones was solid. The floor had to be
solid to support all the rubble.

The broken blocks probably protected it. And even better, the
walls were darker here, less weathered. Maybe they were wooden
panels. If so, a secret compartment might be hidden behind one of
them. Probably near the rear wall. That made the most sense.

His fingers tingled with excitement.

He moved to his left, edging round a pile of slate from the
roof. The floor felt spongy under his feet, but it held. Another
step and he heard a sharp snap, like wood breaking in half. When
nothing further happened, he ran forward, sure that fleetness of
foot would keep him from disturbing the softened floorboards.

It worked. He paused two yards from the base of the stairs, next
to the wall, feeling his heart race. The wooden wainscoting was
dark with damp and pitted, but when he tapped and pried, he could
not find anything even remotely like a secret panel. Feeling
disappointed, he glanced again at the stairs.

The tower was his best choice.

He straightened his jacket, patting the pocket containing the
necklace, and started up. And up. The first floor was empty. Not
even a bird’s nest to hide the necklace. He climbed further up.

The second floor looking more promising. It was almost dark, but
he could make out something against the far wall; it was an old
chest. Dirt and broken slates crusted the rounded top and an old
vine had wound itself round it, but there was no obscuring the
rectangular shape.

This chest would be perfect. No one would think to look here. In
fact, he knew he had to be the first person to have climbed those
stairs for years. He took a cautious step forward. The floor
creaked like an old ship, but it held. Two more slow steps and he
gained confidence, marching forward more rapidly.

He was almost in front of the chest. He took a final step.
Instead of a solid floorboard, his right foot kept going down. His
arms windmilled. There was nothing to grab. For one second, he felt
he might not fall. He seemed suspended in the air.

Then he fell with a yelp of surprise. He tried to catch the edge
of the floor. But he slipped through and before he could scream, he
hit the first floor in a shower of loose rubble, rotten wood and
leaves.

Crack! He landed on his side, the air whooshing out of him. Wood
snapped beneath him, bowing ominously.

Not again!

Fingernails scrabbling over the rotted wood, he threw himself
towards the dim shape of a window piercing the far wall. Rocks and
leaves tumbled over him. His legs kicked in the air. Screaming, he
made one final effort. He rolled over, pushing with his feet when
they touched the floor.

As he scrambled in the darkness, something hit the back of his
head, plunging him downwards into the darkness.

§

Pain made his stomach heave. Edward gagged and clutched his
head. He was blind! He rubbed his face and winced. His head ached
and his skin burned under a gritty film of dirt and shards of
slate. Panicking in the darkness, he dug his fingers into his eyes
despite the sting of dirt. He lifted his head.

His eyes watered. With a desperate sob, he broke into tears, but
everywhere he turned, rocks jabbed at him. He shifted and screamed
when sharp, crippling agony bit into his leg. Every time he moved,
another ripple of pain made him choke. He sniffed and ran his
sleeve over his face and runny nose, trying to breathe.

He had to be calm and unafraid. Think of Nelson. What would he
do?

Then he remembered he was alone in the darkness. Below him, the
monsters rattled round, searching for him. He could not move.
Above, he heard a scrabbling sound. A fragment of rock crashed
nearby, sending a shower of stinging rocks and dirt over him.

No one knew he had come here. No one would come.

He was alone.

“
If you hope to obtain favour, endeavour to deserve it.”
—
The Complete Servant

“He is not in his room,” Helen said, clutching Hugh's sleeve.
“Ned's bed is still made, and there is no sign of him.”

Hugh smiled reassuringly. “He is just out relieving
himself.”

She glanced out at the shadows intensifying and sweeping over
the wide lawns surrounding Ormsby. “In the dark?”

His gaze moved beyond her shoulder to the window. A thoughtful
expression grew in his eyes. He rubbed his hand over his beard. “I
will go and look around. Do not worry, bad pennies always show up
again.”

“He is not a bad penny,” Helen replied. He was not listening or
taking note of her concerns. She could feel that something was
wrong. She knew it.

“He will show up. Just as soon as he realizes he has missed his
supper.”

Before Helen could respond, the housekeeper and butler returned
to the servants' hall.

“You may all go about your duties,” Mr. Symes announced from the
doorway.

The servants glanced at each other. A few shrugged their
shoulders and exchanged whispers.

The cook stood up ponderously, her bulk dominating the end of
the room closest to the kitchens. “What was all this about,
then?”

“Nothing of concern to any of you. A minor, inconsequential
matter that required the attention of Mr. Symes and myself.” Mrs.
Adams clasped her hands at her waist. “Now get along with you.
There's plenty still to be done before you can go to your
beds.”

After the others had filed out, Helen followed Hugh to the room
he shared with Ned. When there was no sign of him there, they went
outside to the outhouse behind the dovecote. Hugh knocked on the
door and stood back, arms crossed over his chest.

“Give a man a minute, mate,” a rough voice answered.

“That's not Ned,” Helen whispered, gripping Hugh's arm.

“No, it is not.” He turned away and for the first time, she
thought she saw worry carving deep lines between his brows. “When
did you see him last?”

“With Cook. He was learning to make sauce.” Her voice shook with
anxiety.

Hugh took her hand in his. The warmth of his grip heartened her
until she glanced around. Night had fallen, shrouding the gardens
around them with misty darkness. The moon had yet to come out and
the light from the stars seemed distant and cold.

Where was he? She could imagine Ned's panic, alone as night
fell.

“Then we will ask in the kitchens about Ned,” Hugh said. “He
might be on an errand.”

The cook was supervising the wash-up when Hugh and Helen
returned to the kitchen. When she caught sight of them, she let out
a long, tired sigh and crossed her arms, adopting a belligerent,
wide-legged stance.

“No more interruptions tonight. If Miss Leigh sent you for a pot
of chocolate, you can just fix it for her and clean up,
besides.”

Hugh’s faced darkened with anger. For a calm man to grow angry
so quickly meant he had to be more worried than he let on about
Ned, Helen thought. A cold shiver rattled through her.

“We are not here for that,” Helen said, stepping forward. “It's
Ned — did you by any chance send him on an errand? Perhaps he got
lost in the cellars?”

“Ned? No. As I said already, I sent him to his room. He was
feeling poorly. Couldn't have him getting sick in the sauce, after
all.”

“And did you see where he went?” Hugh’s voice was hard, as if
accusations simmered in the depths.

The cook stared at him, her face carefully blank. While a
steward was in the upper echelon of servants, a good cook was her
own master. Many a cook wielded more power than any other servant
in the household, due entirely to the stomach — and therefore whims
— of her employer.

A good cook was hard to replace.

“The child went back to his room,” the cook said at last. “If
you wish to find him, look there. He's certainly not in my
kitchen.”

“That is the difficulty,” Helen said. “He is not in his room. We
have looked. He is missing.”

“Missing?” The cook frowned and glanced at Hugh.

The two bristled like a pair of dogs preparing to fight. Each
stared accusingly at the other rather than reveal any weakness such
as anxiety.

“I am afraid he may have got lost somewhere. He is new here. He
may have gone exploring,” Helen said, breaking the tense
silence.

“He was sick, I tell you,” the cook replied sullenly. “He went
nowhere but his room.”

“Well he's not there, so you had better give us another answer,”
Hugh said.

“You think I popped him into my oven? I haven't touched your
brother. But he liked that cat in the stables. Go there and stop
accusing those who are too busy to be hiding little boys.”

Helen laid a hand on Hugh’s forearm. “Please — will you check
the stables?”

“Of course.” He gave one last measured glance at the cook before
he strode through the kitchen door.

“What about the cellars?” Helen asked.

Cook shook her head and ran her forearm over her sweating
forehead. “In this house, I keep the keys to the cellars — not Mr.
Symes. Symes has a small, um, weakness when it comes to spirits.”
She jingled a ring of keys fastened to a tie on her apron. “No-one
went down, not since this afternoon. I went myself to fetch this
evening's wine and the Madeira for the ladies. And I locked up
after.”

“I see,” Helen said, biting her lower lip.

“I can go down and search. You keep these lazy sods at the
dishes, and I'll see if the boy slipped by me, though I can't see
how he could have.”

“Oh, please. I would be so grateful.”

“Yes, Miss Caswell. Just wait here. If he's down there, he'll be
plenty eager to get back out, for there's not a ray of light in the
cellars; just a lot of kegs and blackness as thick as pitch.”

Helen’s heart twisted, imaging Ned's terror. “Hurry —
please.”

With a curt nod, the cook turned on her stout heel and lumbered
over to the door at the rear of the kitchen. The ring of keys
clanked as she fumbled with them before finding the right one and
unlocking the door. A lamp sat on a shelf near the door, and she
stopped to light that before starting down the stairs. Helen
watched as the golden glow bobbed and gradually disappeared.