The Labyrinth of Death Page 11

  “Not funny, Holmes,” I said, wiping my moustache.

  “Not that she isn’t handsome,” he went on, regardless. “Your descriptions of her make that abundantly clear.”

  “Really, that is enough.”

  “At only a decade your senior, she remains within the bounds of eligibility. Her wealth, of course, is an enhancement and an inducement. Yes, it would be an agreeably comfortable life for you with Mrs Wyngarde as the second Mrs Watson.”

  “Holmes!” I barked. “Now you have gone too far. You have overstepped the mark.”

  The vehemence with which I spoke inspired instant contrition. “I do beg your pardon, old friend,” he said with sincerity. “I was insensitive. I should have known better.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “Perhaps this will cheer you up.”

  He handed me a letter that had been tucked into an inner pocket. Before I even unfolded it I knew the sender was Hannah Woolfson. Why else would Holmes have produced it with such a flourish? And why, moreover, would he have deferred its announcement, if not to amplify the drama of unveiling it? For he was perfectly well aware that I was eager for news from Dorset. I had not gone to any trouble to hide the fact.

  The handwriting was neat and elegant, an almost perfect copperplate script. Somehow I would not have expected anything less.

  The letter itself, which consisted of several sheets of light-blue notepaper, read as follows:

  Dear Mr Holmes,

  I write in frustration. I have not made anywhere near as much progress as I would have liked or you might have wished. We have been kept fiendishly busy here, our daily regime allowing us scarcely a moment’s rest. It is late now, and as I sit here by lamplight my eyelids are heavy. Yet I shall persevere.

  Yesterday afternoon I did manage to snatch some time by myself, by dint of claiming I was suffering from a headache. While the others went outdoors to rehearse a performance of Antigone – in the original Greek, of course, and supervised by Dr Pentecost – I was excused. I am merely part of the chorus of Theban Elders, and hence disposable.

  My goal was to explore the house thoroughly. It is vast and extensive, as you know, and there were whole areas where I had not as yet ventured. I travelled methodically from floor to floor, familiarising myself with the layout. There are numerous attic rooms where furniture moulders beneath dustsheets. There is a servants’ wing, and the upper storey of the main part of the building is Sir Philip’s private domain. There is an attached outbuilding that was once a barn but now serves as a rather rough-and-ready barracks for the Hoplites.

  I don’t know what I was hoping to find. I suppose in the back of my mind lay the thought that Sophia might be sequestered against her will in some corner of the property.

  Of her, however, there was no sign. I tried the door to every room that seemed disused or abandoned. Had any been locked, I might have taken this as possible evidence of foul play, but all opened to reveal musty, cobwebbed emptiness.

  My search was at one stage interrupted by the presence of one of Hart’s Hoplites – Mr Quigg. You have met the man. He was at some time in his life a prizefighter, as you yourself no doubt divined. The bent nose, cauliflower ear and callused knuckles are all testimony to that. As I neared a staircase I caught sight of him ascending, his bald pate rising before me. I panicked, fearful of being found by him in a part of the house where I did not belong. I prepared to turn and flee. However, there was no immediate refuge for me within sight, and besides it was too late – Quigg had already spotted me. So instead I adopted a breezy attitude and, barely missing a step, continued towards him. He nodded at me as I sauntered past, and I thought I had managed to brazen it out, but then he called me from behind.

  “It’s Miss Holbrook, isn’t it?”

  My heart was in my mouth, but nonetheless I turned to face him, putting on a nonchalant air. “You are quite right – Quigg, is it? How may I help you?”

  “This” – he waved a finger, denoting the corridor we were in – “is pretty far from where you Elysians are quartered.”

  “Am I forbidden to be here? Are there parts of the house where I should not go?” The questions sounded rhetorical, but were not wholly so.

  “No, ma’am,” said that hulking ogre.

  “Then I have not broken any rules.”

  “You have not. But I will say this.” Quigg took a step closer to me, and I could smell the sweat of him and beneath that the carbolic soap with which he had signally failed to improve his personal hygiene. “You may be a favourite of Sir Philip’s, and that’s all very well and fine. But it don’t do to go asking too many questions. Nor, for that matter, to go wandering about like you own the place. Charfrome plays host to a lot of clever people, but some people can be too clever for their own good, if you catch my drift.”

  I bent my head in humility. “Were anyone else to have spoken to me like that, I might have taken umbrage. But you, Mr Quigg,” I said, looking up from under my eyelashes, “powerful and commanding as you are, have an authority that somehow I have no trouble accepting.”

  He affected nonchalance, but in those small, piggy eyes of his I saw that I had touched upon that part of male character that loves to dominate others, especially members of the opposite sex.

  “You would do well to heed me,” Quigg said, and he strutted off, head held high.

  Shaken though the encounter left me, it stiffened my sinews at the same time. I had already determined what my next avenue of investigation would be, and if I should bump into Hoplites while pursuing it, I was confident that where I had bamboozled once, I could bamboozle again.

  That night I crept out of the house after dark and made for the grotto.

  The feat was not as easy to accomplish as it is to write about. I had to wait until everyone else had gone to bed and then a further hour or so, in order to guarantee that all would be asleep. Then I had to tiptoe along hallways and down staircases that creaked like galleons at sea. Each ancient floorboard seemed a booby trap designed to catch me out and flag my progress to anyone within earshot. In the stillness of the house, those wooden complaints under my feet sounded as loud as thunderclaps.

  But you must forgive me, Mr Holmes. I am writing in a style not unlike that of Dr Watson, whose propensity for melodrama and incidental detail you so deplore. I will attempt to be more concise from here on – although I should add that I cherish the good doctor’s stories precisely because they are not pure reportage but, rather, beautifully structured narratives that display your methodology to its best advantage, as a fine gilt frame shows off the work of an Old Master.

  “A-ha,” said Holmes. “You have reached the part where Hannah compliments your literary skills. No, don’t shake your head in denial. I know that grin.”

  “And are you not flattered to be likened to an Old Master?”

  “I have heard worse comparisons.”

  The ground-floor entrances at Charfrome are locked at night, and the keys are kept somewhere in the servants’ wing. One or other of the domestic staff does the rounds last thing, securing the premises before retiring. The French windows of the gymnasium are the exception; they are fastened by bolts alone. Thus, although it entailed taking a circuitous route through the house, I was able to obtain egress.

  My journey to the grotto was uneventful. A waxing crescent moon offered just enough light to see by, at least until I entered the copse that screens the grotto’s mouth, whereupon I was submerged in absolute darkness and effectively blind. I had made provision against this, however, in the shape of a box of matches purloined from the kitchen. I struck them one after another and by their faint, guttering illumination found my way to the cave. Why the grotto? Because Sophia’s necklace had lain in the grass not far from there, and because it might afford a place of imprisonment, some subterranean dungeon or oubliette.

  What began as a narrow tunnel that was barely tall enough to stand upright in gradually broadened and heightened. I had gone perhaps fifty yards through it �
� some four matches’ worth of distance – when I became aware of a change in the quality of my footfalls. They had begun to echo. Not long after that, the match-light revealed an end to the tunnel – and an opening.

  This aperture gave access to a roughly cylindrical cavern some thirty feet in diameter and two thirds that span in height. The ceiling was hung with stalactites, but the floor was contrastingly flat and had been made that way by hand, for I perceived there the truncated stumps of stalagmites, dish-like circles that corresponded to the positions of their stalactite counterparts above. The circles were marked with the signs of tool-work, as was the rock surrounding them. Through considerable industry the cavern had been rendered a venue where one might easily move about.

  I had heard mention of the grotto from various of the Elysians. Nobody I had spoken to about it, though, owned up to having ventured inside. I would put that down to incuriosity, or perhaps the subtle deterrent effect of the statues of Hades and Cerberus outside. Moreover, the entrance hardly invites exploration. Even in daytime it presents a low, mean aspect, black and seemingly unending. All but the most intrepid troglodyte would think twice before going in.

  From what I could now see, however, the cavern formed yet another component of Sir Philip’s fascination with Hellenic culture. It was, in point of fact, the antithesis of the Arcadia outside.

  For it was Tartarus.

  This realisation hit me just as the match between my fingertips burned out. In the last flickers of its glow I had glimpsed a series of images upon the walls – portraits of hell.

  I lit a fresh match and, steeling myself, stared around.

  The images were frescoes, painted on lime plaster that had been added in a uniform layer to the rock-face. They depicted the torments of the damned, humiliations meted out upon mythological sinners. Here was Tantalus, up to his neck in water and within arm’s reach of a fruit tree but forever denied the relief of either. Here was Sisyphus, repeatedly and futilely rolling a boulder up a mountain. Here was Ixion, tied to a burning wheel. There were others besides, whose punishments were no less degrading but whose identities escaped me. In each image the sky above was grey and foreboding, the background landscape barren save for a few bare, stunted thorn bushes.

  The frescoes were skilfully done, the pigments rich. The rendering of the figures was lifelike but exhibited distinct Grecian flourishes, from the slightly elongated anatomy to the stiff, rather formal postures. Theirs was a peculiarly beautiful suffering, as delicate as it was anguished, exquisite in every sense. I could not bear to look, yet I could not bear to look away.

  As I scrutinised each vignette in turn, I became aware of a muted hissing sound, similar to the sough of wind through trees. It emanated from close by, yet I could not pinpoint its exact origin. Then I realised what it was: the rush of rapidly moving water.

  Somewhere beyond the cavern there must lie an underground stream. I wondered if this aquifer fed the lake and perhaps also supplied the household with fresh water.

  I was just returning my attention to the frescoes when I discerned a flash of light at the periphery of my vision. Immediately I shook out the match I was holding.

  You can well imagine the thoughts that raced through my brain, Mr Holmes, as I stood frozen to the spot, straining eyes and ears. Then I saw the flash again. It briefly lit up the exit from the tunnel to the cavern.

  Someone was coming. Someone with a lantern was making his way along the tunnel towards me.

  Fear gripped me, but I refused to give in to it. As with the Quigg incident earlier in the day, there was nowhere I could hide. My only option was to stay calm and behave as though I was not committing any misdemeanour. I told myself that nobody had said I could not be in the grotto. There was no explicit stipulation against being here. Even at night the place was not out of bounds, at least so far as I was aware; and if it was, I could simply plead ignorance.

  The light bobbed along, illuminating more and more of the tunnel’s rugged interior. Who was carrying it? A Hoplite, I presumed. If so, I hoped it was Quigg, whom I already knew I could manipulate.

  In the event the lantern bearer proved to be someone quite unexpected: Dr Archibald Pentecost.

  Though he was silhouetted by the lantern glow, I recognised the Classics teacher from his stooped posture and shuffling gait. He, in turn, recognised me, but only after a moment of startlement when the beam of the lantern swung round the cavern and alighted upon my face.

  “Good grief!” he exclaimed, clutching his chest. “Miss Holbrook! You scared the life out of me. What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing, Dr Pentecost,” I said. “It is hardly the hour to go gallivanting through the grounds of the estate, nor to indulge in a spot of speleology.”

  “Yet here I am, and here you are, speleologists both.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your decision to visit this place seems somewhat more impromptu than mine, if you don’t mind my saying so. I myself have brought a lantern. I see none in your possession, nor even a candle. All I see is that box of matches in your hand.”

  “Your implication being that I am here clandestinely.”

  “Improperly prepared, at the very least. To add to which, you were waiting in the dark when I arrived, as though you feared discovery.”

  I brazened it out. “It may not be against the rules to enter the grotto, Dr Pentecost, but equally I suspect it is not condoned, certainly not at night.”

  “That is true,” said Dr Pentecost, with a forgiving nod of the head. “It would appear, Miss Holbrook, that we are each as guilty as the other in our nocturnal peregrinations. My excuse is that I do not sleep well. Chronic insomnia. I have had it all my life, even as a lad. A high-functioning brain and a restful night’s sleep do not often go hand in hand. I take Kendal Black Drop for it, but sometimes not even that sedative draught works.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” said I.

  “It is no matter,” he said with a dismissive wave. “I have accepted it as my lot and try to make the most of each waking moment, whether it be through study, writing, or other forms of intellectual stimulus. This grotto, for instance. It is one of Charfrome’s more intriguing attractions.” He shone the lantern around. “Such well-executed pieces. They are Sir Philip’s own handiwork.”

  “I did not realise.”

  “He is an accomplished draughtsman, naturally.”

  “I suppose, as an architect, he could not be otherwise,” I said.

  “You are familiar with all the characters on display, I take it.”

  “Some. Not all. Who is this fellow, for instance? The one imprisoned in a rock, with the table of food outside.”

  “Him? That is the demigod Phlegyas. A son of Ares, he burned down Apollo’s temple at Delphi in a fit of rage. Apollo slew him in revenge, and his reward in the afterlife was to be entombed in a rock with an unattainable feast laid in front of him. See how he peers out through a crevice, his face gaunt. He is starving, but that delicious meal will never be his. Just deserts for one who committed an act of unpardonable hubris.”

  “And him? The man having his innards pecked out by a pair of vultures? Would that be Prometheus?”

  “No. Oh no, my dear. That is Tityos the giant. Admittedly his fate was practically the same as Prometheus’s, but the latter was chained by Zeus to a mountainside in the Caucasus, and rather than vultures it was an eagle who came each day to eat his liver, which duly grew back overnight. Prometheus was regarded by the Greeks as a hero for stealing fire from the gods and giving it to mankind, and therefore the victim of a miscarriage of justice, whereas Tityos was an out-and-out scoundrel. He was consigned to Tartarus for, well… I would not wish to be indelicate in front of a lady.”

  “I am of a robust constitution, Dr Pentecost. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

  “Let us just say he forced himself upon Leto, daughter of the Titans Coeus and Phoebe.”

  “In that case, the penalty he received was fully merited.”

>   By now you may be asking yourself, Mr Holmes, why I was quizzing Dr Pentecost so intently about the frescoes. The answer is that if I exhibited a fascination about them to meet his own, my presence in the cavern might seem less incongruous to him, and thus less questionable. Furthermore, by getting him to expound on a topic I knew was close to his heart, I was gaining his confidence, for later exploitation.

  I believe, however, that I have furnished you with sufficient detail about that part of the conversation. Dr Pentecost and I then went on to talk more broadly on the subject of punishment, and although I am, as I have said, very tired, I feel the exchange is interesting enough to merit reproducing herewith.

  “The Ancient Greeks certainly seemed fond of the idea of harsh retribution being doled out in the next life,” I said.

  “Yes. Yes,” said Dr Pentecost. “Perhaps not quite as much as us Christians. I mean, think of Dante. Think of Hieronymus Bosch. But still, the notion of hell and poetic justice was not alien to them.” He leaned closer to the fresco, squinting. “Not alien at all.”

  “Do Elysians have methods of punishment too?”

  “Hmm? What’s that?”

  “I was just wondering if there are sanctions here for those who transgress.”

  “Whatever can you mean? Sanctions? Transgress? What makes you ask such a thing?”

  “This place. Everything at Charfrome is perfect – paradisal – save for a dank and somewhat sinister cavern adorned with images of torment and suffering, an Underworld both figurative and literal. What is its purpose? What does it represent?”

  “You would have to ask Sir Philip about that,” said Dr Pentecost. “I am sure I don’t know.”

  “But if you had to hazard a guess…”