“Arthur, do stop your nonsense.” Gladys did not pause in her own banging to scold. “And really, what you intend to hear with your bad ear pressed against the wall is utterly beyond me.”
“It's not out here,” Brian decided. He left them to their soundings of the walls and began searching the hall door itself. When that proved fruitless, he started on the stairs, the walls, even reaching up on his toes to bang on the ceiling. All he uncovered was years of dust. He reached the top step and went back into the attic, his head throbbing now in time to every knock of every hand down below.
Arthur called up, “Find anything?”
“Nothing but a headache.” He sat down on the landing. “I was so sureâ”
“And you were right,” Cecilia exclaimed.
He almost tumbled in his haste to join her. She was down on her knees, feeling at something a few inches above the first step's baseboard.
“You were looking at the height of an adult,” she explained. “But it was a child who made this discovery.”
Cecilia fitted a fingernail into a small crevice and out popped a door about ten inches square. Four heads struggled for position, and Brian bumped his head against Gladys's, which caused him to moan as the others cried, “A secret handle!”
“Go on, Arthur dear, give it a tug.”
“Wait, let's get Brian down.”
Three pairs of arms pried him out onto the landing and propped him against the wall. They were all far too excited to comment on how he held his thumping head, nor did he himself particularly care. Arthur pulled on the handle, but could not make it budge. Impatiently the two women sandwiched him in, the three of them so tightly packed that Brian would have laughed out loud if he thought his head would stand it. Together they heaved, paused, huffed, then heaved again. The handle gave with a reluctant rusty groan.
Brian watched in amazement as the stairs disappeared.
One moment they were sturdy and as solid as the house itself. The next, they flapped down like oversized shutters to reveal a dark rectangular hole.
The four of them peered down in astonishment until Arthur cried, “Stay right where you are. I'll go fetch a torch. Don't anyone dare go down without me.”
The wait was just long enough for the thunder in Brian's head to subside. The old gentleman puffed his way back down the hall and breathlessly announced to Cecilia, “It's good you're here. I might have need of your services.”
“Sit down on the floor, you great ninny,” Gladys scolded. “You won't do any of us any good having a heart attack.”
“If you say so, dear.” Arthur eased himself down, then handed Brian the flashlight. “I suppose you'd best take over from here.”
The light revealed another series of oversteep stairs, six of them leading down to a between-floors level. Gingerly Brian lowered himself until he was standing on the floor and shoulder-level with what had before been the first step. He ducked down, shone the light around, and said, “There's a tunnel.”
“The excitement is definitely getting to me. Move over, dear,” Gladys said as she collapsed alongside her husband, who had slid up to dangle his legs over the ledge of the opening.
Brian leaned over and duckwalked down the tunnel's ten feet. At the other end was a rough wooden door. He worked the latch, pushed, and the door swung open. Dust and musty air puffed out to greet him. He waved at a few scattering cobwebs, squinted against the dust, shone his light around, and found himself utterly beyond words.
“Don't just stand there,” Cecilia called down to him. “Say something!”
Brian turned and shuffled back out to where three huge pairs of eyes waited. Arthur demanded, “What did you find?”
“Just like Sarah said,” Brian replied. “An Aladdin's cave.”
B
RIAN INQUIRED,
“S
HOULDN'T YOU BE GETTING TO THE
clinic?”
“Don't make me feel any more guilty than I already do.” Cecilia shifted the box to gain a better grip, causing the contents to jingle. “How's your head?”
“Okay, as long as I don't think about it.”
Cecilia halted before a door with hand-etched gold letters proclaiming it to be an antique and curio shop. “This is the place.” When she pushed against the door, somewhere in the depths of the shop a chime sounded. “Mr. Miles?”
“Well, if it isn't my favorite visitor.” A little man with an oversized head and oddly cocked spectacles entered from the back. “Are you here to not buy something again?” To Brian he offered his hand and the words, “And you must be the famous Mr. Blackstone. How do you do? I'm John Miles.”
Brian gingerly set the box he carried down on the counter and shook the man's hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“The honor is mine, I assure you.” He adjusted his spectacles, or tried to, which merely left them cocked at a different angle. “You look a bit knocked about. I say, is that thread dangling from beneath that bandage on your forehead?”
“Afraid so.”
“Well, life in Knightsbridge has been far too dull since poor Heather left us.” John Miles stood only an inch or so over five feet, possessed a distinctly pear-shaped body on stumpy bowed legs, and had a way of cocking his head that left his glasses looking almost level. “I suppose the village should be glad to have you around. Though from what I hear, it won't be for long. More's the pity, I say.”
Cecilia had set her own box down on the floor and wandered to the far end of the room. “Brian has something he'd like to sell to you.”
“Well, of course, I couldn't pretend to believe you'd actually bring someone in here wanting to buy anything.” To Brian, he explained, “Dear Dr. Lyons has been stopping by for, how long is it now, dear?”
“Almost two years.”
“She treats my shop as her personal museum, you see. She latches on to the most valuable items in the place, moons and sighs about for a time, then turns distinctly hostile when I happen to find someone able to acquire them.”
“You're supposed to keep them for me.”
“Of course I am.” He explained to Brian, “She has marvelous taste and no money whatsoever. Are you rich?”
“Am I . . . Definitely not.”
“Pity. I am certain this young lady will prove extremely adept at spending someone else's money.”
“I just happen to like nice things,” Cecilia countered. She traced her hand along the lines of an inlaid cupboard. “This is pretty.”
“It's also very expensive, I'm afraid. Rosewood with ivory and ormolu inlaid. French. Eighteenth-century.” As an aside to Brian, he added, “Impeccable tastes. Are you sure you're not wealthy?”
“Bone-dry.” Brian reached into the box. “Cecilia says you might be able to help us find a buyer for these.”
“Oh, well. This is quite splendid.” The gentleman deftly took the glass object from Brian. “Instruments designed for a Catherine wheel, are they?”
“You tell me.”
“Ah. Not a connoisseur of Victorian glass, are you?”
“I couldn't even tell you what you said.”
“Quite. Well, the mainstay of these items is what they called a Catherine wheel. Named after a firework, which in turn was named after a rather obstinate saint who refused to recant her beliefs, even when she was tied to a great wooden wheel with rockets strapped to her body. Or so the legend goes. The baddies set her alight, and she began to spin, and as she spun she sang. Converted an entire nation with her passage.” He offered Brian a quick smile. “I suppose that's where they came up with the expression âGoing out with a bang and not a whimper.'”
“You're a very terrible person,” Cecilia declared from her corner. “Is the glass valuable?”
“Depends on one's definition of value, I suppose. It won't allow you to acquire the cupboard you're eyeing there, but certain collectors will be delighted.” To Brian, “Did you find this stumbling about the manor?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How astonishing. Mrs. Harding had me over a few times to value items. But all she cared to show me were some rather frayed carpets, two huge horrid hippo heads, and a moth-eaten alligator.” John Miles refocused on the article, which was a long, slender glass pipe with a definite bulge at one end. “This is what we call a Crookes' tube. See the little object hanging in the middle of the protrusion here?”
“It looks like a butterfly.”
“That's precisely what it is. These were very popular in Victorian times, made in huge quantities. It was hooked up to the Catherine wheel, which was really just an electric spark machine; I don't suppose you found one of those as well. It would have looked like a great wooden wheel on a stand, probably with a brass or ivory handle attached to one side.”
“I saw two or three,” Brian replied.
“Oh, excellent. The spark machines are actually rarer than the glass, and thus more valuable. Well, you would attach cables to either end here, then spin the wheel and create a spark. Not enough to kill you if you held the tube wrong, but it would certainly make you go numb for hours. The tubes light up, you see. Depending on what gas was trapped inside, and what they used to paint the decorative item like this butterfly, it would turn a variety of colors. Cobalt blue, potassium red, and so forth. Back before the invention of the Edison light, these tubes were all the rage.”
Cecilia walked back over. “Sort of the Victorian equivalent of our lava lamps.”
The antique dealer took on a pained expression. “I very much doubt our ancestors would appreciate your comparison.”
Brian demanded, “How much are they worth?”
Carefully he set the glass down on the countertop. “Oh, possibly as much as two hundred pounds for a nice one. And five or six hundred for the spark machine, if it's in working order.” Mr. Miles adjusted his spectacles once more. “How much of this glassware do you have?”
“A whole roomful.”
“You don't say. How splendid. I suppose I could take as many as a dozen.”
Brian had to ask, “Until they sell, could you maybe front me some money?”
“Things are that bad, are they?” Mr. Miles peeled back the towels they had used to wrap the glass and began lifting others out of the boxes. “I don't see why not. I have a couple of collectors in mind who would probably take the lot. Shall we say five hundred pounds?”
Brian signed over the glass articles, accepted the cash, and held the shop door for Cecilia. Once they were back on the street he asked, “Why do you look so glum?”
“It's silly, I know. But I was hoping we'd found something valuable enough that you could save the manor.”
“So was I,” Brian confessed. “And it's not silly at all.”
“How much do you need?”
“The death duties are six hundred thousand pounds.” Just saying the amount depressed him. “Over a million dollars.”
“I wish . . .” Cecilia spotted something behind Brian, and abruptly her face turned to stone. She demanded coldly, “Have you been following us?”
“Got better things to do with my day.” Joe Eaves stepped up and gave Brian his ever-friendly smile. “Morning, your lordship. Looks like somebody took a swing at you. Don't say I didn't warn you about messing about with Hardy Seade.”
Cecilia demanded, “What did you hear, Joe?”
“Not a thing. Didn't need to. I know all there is about the likes of our Mr. Seade.” He slid between them. “Better watch out for the doc here, your lordship. She may not look it, but the lady has expensive taste.”
Brian said nothing as the handsome, lanky gardener stepped into the shop and called out, “Morning to you, John. How's tricks?” The dealer's response was cut off by the door slamming shut in Brian's face.
He asked Cecilia, “What is he doing here?”
“Oh, Joe knows everybody. He probably makes deliveries for the shop.” She glanced at her watch and said tiredly, “I have to go. I'm an hour late already.” She started down the street, her earlier gaiety lost and forgotten. “I never told you why I finally broke up with him.”
“It's none of my business,” Brian protested. “And I'm not sure I want to know.”
She acted as though he had not spoken. “Joe let it be known that he felt like Rose Cottage was his by right. Every time he came over, he would walk around the place like he was surveying it, just waiting to get his hands on it and start remodeling.”
“That's another reason for me not to like him,” Brian said, walking alongside her. “As if I needed any more.”
“Joe claimed it had been the gardener's house for generations. That was why Heather had let him go; he had insisted to be allowed to move in. She refused and then fired him. Two years after Heather's death, he was still arguing with her. It was the only time I ever saw him angry, whenever he'd start talking about Heather stealing the cottage from him.”
Brian continued up the street with her and softly declared, “If there was any way for me to keep the manor, I'd give you Rose Cottage.”
She turned toward him, started to speak, then abruptly spun and walked away. Ten paces farther along she turned back, revealing a struggle in her eyes that kept her from speaking. Cecilia stared at him a moment longer, then walked on alone.
Twenty-three
C
ECILIA WAS BARELY THROUGH THE CLINIC'S FRONT DOOR
before Maureen gripped her arm and tugged her down the passage. “Will you let go of my arm?”
“Just come along here, dear,” Maureen sang, pulling her into the kitchen alcove and shutting the door. “Well?”
“I wanted to apologize to the patients for making them wait.”
“Never mind that,” Maureen snapped. “What did you and Brian find?”
Cecilia gaped at her assistant. “How did you hear about that?”
“My dear sweet innocent doctor, this entire village is talking about Mr. Brian Blackstone and his mysteries from beyond the grave. Gladys told somebody and that somebody told another somebody, and now the whole town wants to know what you've unearthed.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door. “You are not going anywhere until you tell me what you found.”