The Birth of Blue Satan (20 page)

Tom had lived on Lord Hawkhurst’s estate for most of his life without learning that a secret entrance had been built into the house from the ruins of the original abbey. St. Mars led him through the familiar game park to the bottom of a hill below the main house, where a centuries-old bridge spanned a ditch that had once held a stream. The stream had long-since been diverted, but the arched set of stones that had carried the monks across it on their way to the neighbouring abbey, some twenty-five miles away, was still strong enough to bear any weight. They aimed for the southeastern corner of the old religious complex where a huddle of crumbled walls stood. If Tom had been asked earlier, he would have said that the monks lying buried there had slept undisturbed, but apparently in the last bloody century someone had ordered a passage to be carved into the hill.

Squeezing past a barrier of tangled vines and caved-in stones, Gideon pushed his way into the ruins surrounding the abbey church. In this section, he had explained to Tom on their long ride down, the chief monastic buildings had stood apart from the abbey infirmary, the novices’ cloister, and the quarters for the aged monks. Most of the stones from those, the original chapter house, the refectory and storehouses had been taken and used to build the first Earl Hawkhurst’s manor on the site of the abbot’s house, but the rest had been left as an interesting bit of antiquity under its cover of trees and vines.

Tom peered down into almost total darkness. He could make out nothing but the queer silent shapes of tumbled stones.

The stables, kennels, and mews that supported the present house had fortunately been built on the other side of the house. Neither the horses nor the dogs could hear them from here, so they needn’t fear a ruckus.

Safely out of sight of the house, Gideon withdrew a book of Congreve matches from his pocket and struck them a light. They had brought torches with them, and the instant flames revealed a set of worn stone steps leading down to a vaulted area below ground. In the days when the abbey had been filled with monks, this had been an undercroft. Now it was empty and remarkably free of dirt or refuse. Its cold stone flooring was probably too inhospitable for any beast to make it his home.

In the silence behind him, Gideon could hear Tom’s wary tread and his gasping breath when without any preamble, he made his way across the floor towards a blackened opening in the wall.

“You’re never going in there, my lord!” Tom whispered.

The horror in his voice made Gideon turn to examine him with the help of his light. Square and dependable—but with his face shining with sweat even on this cold night—Tom appeared as white as the moon.

“I have to go in. There’s a passage that leads underground and climbs a few hundred yards farther along to lead into the house. If you’ll come, you’ll see that it’s not so bad.”

In a strangled voice, Tom blurted, “I can’t.”

Gideon had never heard just that note of panic from him before. “It’s not haunted, you know—though I haven’t been inside it for years. The point was not to use it, you see, except in the case of direst necessity. I doubt, however, that it has been taken over either by bats or ghosts.”

“You know I’m not afraid of any of them things, my lord.”

“Do you think the roof will tumble down on you? You run a far greater danger of being arrested for consorting with me.”

If possible, Tom’s face had grown even paler at this suggestion, but he stood his ground. “I’m not afraid of anything I can see. I just—I just never have liked—being in dark, little places.”

His horror was obviously real, even if it was one Gideon did not share.

“Very well. There’s really no need for you to go in, but I wanted you to see where the passage is,  in case you ever need it. It might be better if you were to stand guard anyway. If someone should stumble upon us, you can cover my back.”

Gideon turned and prepared to walk stooping through the passageway. “Keep your torch lit, and stay out of sight of the windows.”

“When will you come back?”

At the worry in his voice, Gideon smiled. “I can’t say how long it will take me to read Henry’s ledger. If you’d rather, you can wait outside.”

Gideon stooped to pass through the low, dark passageway and felt his way forward on the irregular stone floors. Once inside, his torch cast a beam only a few steps in front of him into a dank, earth-smelling void that seemed to expand and contract with the movement of his light. The underground passage had been constructed over a walkway from the abbot’s house to the base court of the abbey. The walkway had sunk over the years, since the abbey had been built some 600 years before. The grounds about it had been filled in and gardens had been built over it, but whomever Gideon’s great-grandfather had hired to construct the passageway had known just where to look for it. All Cistercian abbeys had been built along the same plan, with an east-west passage linking the abbot with his church. The architect had only needed to dig for it and to build a long arch for a ceiling to protect any priest—or family member—who had a reason to flee Cromwell’s men.

As far as Gideon knew, the passage had never been used, but there had been many a time when Cromwell’s Roundheads had struck terror into Kent on their way to sack Canterbury. He remembered the moment, on his eighth birthday, when his father had taken him up the stairs to show him the important secret, which he’d said must be preserved in case the Reverend Mr. Bramwell should ever find himself in danger from a resurgence of the religious violence.

Gideon recalled the immense feeling of responsibility he had felt for keeping the secret. In all these years, he had divulged it to no one save for Tom now, no matter how great the temptation had been. Many times he had wanted to use the tunnel as a play place, but each time he had thought of revealing it, he had remembered his father’s stories of the Civil War, and he had contented himself with an occasional foray into it alone.

Now he had told Thomas Barnes, who was as trustworthy as any man alive. Whatever happened to him, the secret would not die.

He came to a place where the walls were coated with a sheen of moisture and knew that he was more than halfway along. The monks’ original watercourse had intersected the walkway here, flowing under it before resuming its journey to the mills. The stream had been re-routed to supply pastures farther from the house, but nature had obviously decided to leave some water behind.

The air in the tunnel grew scarce as Gideon neared the house, so he was relieved to see the wooden door at the end. Before extinguishing his torch, he tried the latch and managed to open it after only a few jerks to scrape off the rust. Then he smothered his flame and, in total blackness, opened the door.

He felt a slight but welcome flow of air from the staircase built inside the Abbey wall. Feeling with the toes of his boots, he scaled the tight spiral staircase, scraping his knees and hips on the stones with every step. Even with a thickness of a few feet, there was hardly room enough to squeeze himself up as he inched his way to the top. He had remembered the stairwell as bigger, but it was he who had been smaller the last time he had ventured here. Prudently he advanced with a hand held high to avoid locating the next step with his head.

His hand collided with a roof. For a moment, he listened for sounds, but nothing came from the other side of the panel. Hoping that the spring that moved it still worked, he pushed on the latch he located with his thumb.

The panel sprang open. A surprising amount of light greeted him from a window near the bed. His eyes had grown accustomed to total darkness, so the moon glowing on the bed curtains shone nearly as bright as a beacon, making his errand all the easier.

Gideon stepped out of the stairwell and closed the panel behind him, then quickly sat down on a chair to pull off his boots. Years ago, this tiny chamber had been furnished for a superior servant, but lately it had only been used when a visitor of rank required the space for a member of his retinue. It was seldom needed, and no one would be likely to come across his pair of boots while he padded about.

The small chamber—hardly more than a closet—stood upon the first floor near the chapel gallery and the queen’s set of chambers. Gideon cracked open its only door, peered into the deserted rooms beyond and crept out.

The great chest, which held his father’s money, had usually been kept in the London house, but since his father’s retirement from public life, it had been brought back here. Gideon knew he would have to cross the open gallery to the other side of the Abbey before he could search through it for James Henry’s ledger.

The house—
his
house, though he had been made to feel an intruder in it—was as silent as his father’s grave. An empty air seemed to have settled over it. Gideon felt all the weight of his loss as he moved in stockinged feet through the warren of rooms which had been shrouded in ghostly holland sheets. Angrily he shook off the pall that threatened to overcome him. Action would be the only cure for his grief. He couldn’t afford to wallow in emotions.

The gallery yawned before him, lit by a long row of leaded windows that faced the collection of portraits. Gideon’s ancestors, their friends, and monarchs who had figured in the family affections for generations watched as he passed. He needed no candle. Every nook and corner of this place was as familiar to him as his own face. He even knew which squeaking boards to skirt.

As he turned right into the wing that housed his father’s chambers, a sense of excitement built in him at the idea that he might be on the point of discovering something important.

As they had many times that day, his thoughts drifted to his conversation with Mrs. Kean, who had alerted him to James Henry’s role in his troubles.

He would never forget her kindness, when so many others had turned away. If another young lady had done the same, he would have wondered about her motives. But not with Mrs. Kean. It had been clear from her manner that her intelligence and her true sense of fairness had been offended by Sir Joshua’s unprincipled accusations.

Strange that he hadn’t noticed before what an attractive smile she had.

She had given him this first line of pursuit. He had to discover why James Henry had so willingly thrown the blame his way. There had been a new hostility in his tone when they had talked in his father’s library. Whether he believed that Gideon had killed his father—or from some other cause—his animosity had never been quite so apparent before. Gideon tried to recall the man’s expression throughout their conversation, but his painful feelings in that room had made him less than perfectly observant.

Had James Henry regretted his indiscretion? Did he fear Gideon would hold him accountable for Sir Joshua’s insults? Or had there been something else?

Gideon had often wondered at the amount of trust his father placed in his receiver-general. James Henry wielded all the authority of a superior servant, of the kind seldom employed any longer except in royal households, in which positions like his were still held by men of noble blood. Not so very long ago, every duke or earl would have employed an agent such as he, but as with everything else, customs were changing. Only a man to whom tradition was a major point of honour, like Gideon’s father, would have clung to such a costly way of operating his estate. The difference was that James Henry had no pedigree to recommend him, but Gideon had been too preoccupied with his own education and later his three-year Grand Tour to question the running of Rotherham Abbey. And when he had returned, he had found James Henry more entrenched than ever.

Perhaps he should have asked these questions before.

Nestled among the suite of rooms that included Lord Hawkhurst’s bedchamber, his library, his wardrobe, and his privy, was another with only one door. It had been locked with one of James Henry’s keys, as would be the chest itself. Gideon had come prepared with a stout iron bar tucked firmly through his belt. He forced one end of it between the door and its frame, then pushed with all his weight. He heard the splintering of oak as the door broke free of the lock. The aged wood had held fast except where it had been weakened by a joint with the metal.

He listened for sounds of footsteps, but no noise would have carried through these thick stone walls unless someone had been near enough to see him. Satisfied that no one was coming, Gideon hastened to find a light. His servants knew their duties—an abundance of candles lay close to hand. He lit two and set them upon James Henry’s desk.

He was much more reluctant to rip into his father’s chest, the product of an Augsburg craftsman. It had been in the family for over one hundred years. The keys should have been handed to him the moment he had risen from his sickbed. He had to convince himself now that he risked losing all his fortune if he did not forfeit the chest.

His bar made short shrift of the finer wood, the carved wooden panels, and the flowers that had been painted with such skill. Gideon felt the injury to the chest as if he had torn into himself. Again, however, he pushed his feelings aside and, as soon as he had it opened, felt inside the chest for Henry’s ledger. He found it alongside the neat stacks of notes on London goldsmiths, among the silver and gold coins.

Ignoring the money for the time being—though he would need to replenish his meagre funds—he took the ledger to the only chair in the room. With the light from the candle, he began reading through the household records, starting near the end.

Here were their lives, minutely recorded in James Henry’s small, tight script, every penny accounted for, whether it be a pound and seven shillings for the wood and iron to make two umbrellas or one and six for a gargle for Mrs. Dixon. Gideon noted the payment of his own allowance, as he thumbed through the ledger, along with annual servants’ wages, payments to the grocers and mercers, and the doctors called in on a regular basis to physic the staff. Other entries recorded the purchase of trees for the orchard, beeves for the table, and cloth for the servants’ livery.

The mass of details made him impatient. He had never realized all the tiny bits of recordkeeping that went into maintaining a household of this size. He couldn’t believe that somewhere in this minutiae, he wouldn’t find what he sought.