Coronation Year, page 26
Edie stood in the darkness, paralyzed, and tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Someone was thrashing around, and then something heavy was being dragged, she thought, and then, even more horrifyingly, there was only silence.
She had to escape. She had to get to Jamie. He would know what to do. He would help her.
She began to creep back up the stairs, her heart in her throat, her eyes still frantically searching the darkness. The door had swung shut behind her, blocking out the light from the corridor. She had only to reach it—a few steps more, only a few—and then she would be safe. She would lock it from the other side and run to Jamie.
She was almost there, she had to be, but then a rush of air came out of the void, a smothering weight was pressed over her face, a wretchedly sweet and nauseating smell filled her nose and mouth, and she fell down, down, and into the dark.
When Edie woke from her nightmare there was a disagreeable taste in her mouth, and she had an awful headache, too. She was cold and her bed was hard and strangely lumpy. She decided to pull up the covers, but her hands would not move. They were, she understood after several long minutes of fruitless effort, tied securely behind her back.
It was dark in her room, only it was not her room. She was in the cellar, for she recognized the close, musty smell of the place. It was dark, but she could just make out some flashes of light, and it seemed they were not so very far away.
“Hello?” she called out, and only then did she remember.
The cellar. The stairs. Professor Thurloe. Ivor.
The light came closer, ever closer, and something nudged at her ribs. A man’s foot, prodding at her.
“Awake?” the man asked.
“Ivor? Is that you?”
The man crouched by her head, his shoes crunching on the limestone screening. “You might as well call me Cousin Ivor. We’re past pretending now, aren’t we?”
The light was so strong, and it hurt her eyes so badly. “I can’t see. Where am I?”
Suddenly the light swung upward, pointing at the ceiling, and she was able to see the man. It was Ivor, and for some reason he wore a sort of head lamp, as a miner might do. It was rather comical, though there was nothing funny at all about the chilly look of irritation on his face.
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you? That bloody boiler. You just had to come down and check on it. Never mind that I’d have fetched you down before too long. At least you saved me a trip upstairs.”
With the light out of her eyes she was able to see a little better, and as she turned her head she noticed that Professor Thurloe was lying only a yard or so away, his eyes shut, his hands bound.
“Why are you doing this to me? To the professor? I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You haven’t the least idea of what is going on around you.” Ivor smiled, but it was a mechanical gesture quite devoid of warmth. “You really have made it so easy. Stupid, naive Edie, who is very much not the last of the Howards, despite what you claim to believe. Or have you truly forgotten those of us who were disinherited so your grandfather might deprive his own sister of her birthright?”
“I’ve never met, let alone heard of, a single Howard cousin,” she insisted, and even as she said it she remembered the whispers and rumors of a rift that had happened long before her own father’s birth.
“Of course you have. My grandmother was five years older than her brother, your grandfather, and twice as smart, besides, and even though she knew everything about this hotel and its workings, her own father chose to cast her aside when she married my grandfather.”
“I agree that sounds most unfair, Ivor, and had I known—”
“You knew. You all did. He cut her off, not so much as a penny to her name, and my mother grew up in a poor man’s house in South Shields while your father set about running this place into the ground.”
“Not deliberately, he didn’t. And I’ve done my best to set things right since I inherited the hotel. Surely you can see that.”
“I suppose I do. Not that it matters now.”
“Ivor. Listen to me. I swear, on my honor, that I did not know that your grandmother was unfairly disinherited. Had I known, I would certainly have made amends. Not only because it would have been the right thing to do, but also because I never wished to be the last of the Howards. You know how lonely I’ve been all these years. Why did you never tell me? I wouldn’t have pushed you away. I’d have welcomed you.”
For a moment he seemed to consider what she had said, but then, his frown deepening, he shook his head. “So what if you had? It’s too late now.”
In that moment, Edie knew that he would not let her live. “What are you going to do?” she managed to ask.
“Nothing so dramatic as you might think. I’ve made a smallish bomb—you can’t see it from here, I’m afraid, but it should be enough to bring down the tunnel and just enough of the forecourt to alarm the authorities. I’ll knock you out again before I set it off, and when the tunnel comes down I promise you won’t feel a thing. Consider it a kindness from your long-lost cousin.”
Far away, at the other end of the cellar, there came a sound. Was it a creak on the stairs? The cellar door swinging open? She gathered her breath, ready to scream, but Ivor was too fast. He stuffed a rag into her mouth, pushing it so deep she had no hope of spitting it out, and sprang to his feet.
“I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t go anywhere.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Stella
It was the sound of firecrackers that startled her out of sleep. Merrymakers, she supposed, not caring who they disturbed as long as they had their fun. She lay in bed for a while, but it was no use. She was awake now, and thirsty besides.
Stella put on her robe and set off down the corridor to fetch a drink of water from the washroom. Passing by the Crane sisters’ temporary bedroom, she noticed that the door was ajar and the light was still on. “Miss Polly? Miss Bertie?” she whispered, and when neither woman answered she dared to peek inside.
Miss Polly was asleep, lying on top of her bedcovers, and she was still wearing her party dress from the night before. Her sister was snoring in the easy chair on the opposite side of the room, her feathered aigrette headband drooping low on her forehead. Suddenly fearful, Stella approached Miss Bertie and touched her shoulder. She was warm, and she was breathing, but she was so terribly still.
An open bottle of champagne was sitting on the table in the sisters’ adjoining sitting room, and from the look of it neither of the women had consumed more than a glass. Certainly not enough to have left both of them in such a stupor. Perhaps they had fallen ill? It was the middle of the night, and Miss Howard would be sleeping, but Mr. Swan would be at the front desk. He might be able to help.
She dressed in a rush and ran downstairs to the front hall, only Mr. Swan wasn’t at the reception desk. Daring to open the office door, she peeked inside, hoping to find him there. “Mr. Swan?” she called out softly, but she was answered by silence.
Retreating from the office, she glanced behind the reception desk—and there was Mr. Swan, lying on the floor, and he, too, was sleeping so soundly he could not be roused.
What to do, what to do? She ran down the corridor that led to the kitchen, but it was dark and still, and so, too, was the staff dining room. And then, just as she ran past the cellar door, she heard it. A voice. A man was in the cellar, and from the sound of it he was furiously angry.
She pushed the door open, but only a little. Only enough to hear what the man was saying.
“. . . bloody boiler. You just had to come down and check on it. Never mind that I’d have fetched you down before too long. At least you saved me a trip upstairs.”
It was Ivor Brooks, but why was he at the hotel in the middle of the night, and in the cellar? And why was he so upset about the boiler?
Another voice answered him. It was a woman—it was Edie, and she was terrified. “Why are you doing this to me? To the professor? I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t,” Brooks said, and the way he spoke to Edie, his every word dripping with disgust and contempt, made Stella’s blood run cold. “You haven’t the least idea of what is going on around you. Stupid, naive Edie.”
It made no sense, none of it made any sense at all, but the worst thing she could do, now, was to lose her head. She could not hope to overpower him on her own—she needed help.
Jamie would help.
Stella closed the door as carefully as she could and scurried down the hall, but succeeded only in bumping against the umbrella stand by the kitchen door. She froze, praying that Brooks hadn’t heard, but it was no use.
Footsteps sounded on the cellar steps, relentless, terrifying, and she knew she had only seconds to hide. But where? Where? The scullery was close by, its door ajar, and the big hampers of laundry might be large enough to conceal her. She darted across the corridor and squeezed behind one of the tall wicker baskets.
She held her breath, waiting, waiting. The footsteps came closer, ever closer. She was breathing so heavily, and the drumbeat of her heart was so very loud.
The footsteps stopped. Had he come into the scullery? Or was he still in the corridor? Endless seconds ticked past, but then, finally, just as Stella thought she might faint from the effort of keeping so still and silent, Brooks grunted in annoyance and swore under his breath.
He retreated back along the corridor. The cellar door swung shut. A key, turning, grated in a lock.
Stella forced herself out of her hiding place and along the corridor and up the stairs, running so fast she tripped and bruised her shins more than once, but soon she was at Jamie’s door, and she hammered on it wildly, not caring if she woke the entire hotel. For all she knew, they had all been drugged, just like the Crane sisters and Mr. Swan.
What if Jamie, too, had been knocked out? What would she do? A telephone call to the police? But the only telephones were on the main floor, at the reception desk and in Edie’s office, and if she were to use one of them Brooks would surely hear.
“Jamie!” she called, her voice rising. “Jamie—please come! I need your help! There is something very wrong! Oh, please—”
The door opened to reveal Jamie, who was very much awake though still in his pajamas. “What is it, Stella?”
“I cannot wake the Crane sisters, and Mr. Swan, too, he is lying on the floor, and I heard someone in the cellar. It is Ivor Brooks, that wretch, and he has Edie with him, and he is so very angry, and I think he is going to hurt her. I think he heard me, and now he has locked the cellar door, and I do not know what to do. Please help me!”
“I will,” he said, and she believed him. “Do you know how to use the telephone here?”
“I do, but I was worried he might hear me. I thought it would be better if I came to you first.”
“I’m glad you did. I think you’ll be all right if you use the one in Edie’s office. As long as you shut the door, and speak softly, Brooks won’t hear. Dial zero for the operator, and when she answers tell her to put you through to Detective Inspector Gordon Bayliss on Gairloch Road in Southwark. Got that? Gordon Bayliss, Gairloch Road, Southwark. He’ll answer. Tell him Brooks has Edie cornered in the cellar. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
He set off at a run down the stairs. “I’ll deal with Brooks,” he called back.
“But the cellar door is locked!”
“I know—I have another plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jamie
Jamie considered his options as he ran down the stairs and out the back door into the courtyard. It was full dark still, though not for long; enough time, all the same, for him to slip into the cellar without Brooks noticing. Now he only had to pray the coal chute was big enough for him to squeeze through.
It was. Long ago, it must have been another entrance, for its door was set into the ground at an angle, and was wide enough for two men to pass abreast. Now he knelt before it and forced himself to reach for the handle. His hands were shaking, and his chest felt so tight that he might as well have been deep-sea diving, but he could not allow fear to prevent him from helping Edie.
He opened the door, dreading the squeak of rusty hinges, but someone had kept them well greased. God bless them, whoever they were. He slipped through the opening, letting his arms bear his weight, unable to see anything at all in the encompassing dark.
The coal store beneath was nearly empty, and it was easy, in bare feet, to nudge aside the few lumps that remained and find his footing on the gritty floor. He reached out, feeling for the edge of the store, and swung one leg over, then the other.
Then he stood in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. After a minute or so he was able to make out a light in the distance. It was bobbing about, rather as if an enormous firefly had found its way into the cellar, but it was just enough to guide him forward.
Jamie edged closer, ever closer, determined to catch Brooks unaware. He had no weapon, an oversight for which he cursed himself, but he did have the advantage of surprise.
Brooks was talking, and it beggared belief to hear the wretch go on as if he were standing at a party, cocktail in hand, gossiping about the neighbors. “I’ve any number of plans for the hotel once you’re out of the way. A complete redecoration, for a start, and good-bye to that pair of old bags you’ve let molder on for years. While I’m at it, the rest of the staff can go. Useless pack of duffers.”
The headlamp Brooks wore cast a pool of bright light wherever he faced, and as he swung about and looked down, Jamie saw her, his darling Edie, and it was all he could do not to rush forward and gather her in his arms. She lay on her side on the cold, hard floor, her hands tied behind her back, a rag shoved into her mouth. Professor Thurloe lay not far away, his eyes closed. He, too, was bound and gagged.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” Brooks asked her. “Oh, right. I forgot about the gag.” He crouched down and pulled it roughly from her mouth. “If you scream I’ll push it down your throat until you choke on it.”
“What makes you think you’ll get the hotel once I’m dead?” Edie asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “My will leaves the hotel to my employees, and the proceeds are divided according to length of service. You’ll be left a few thousand pounds, but no more.”
“Stupid, stupid girl. That was your old will. In your new will, the one the police will find in your safe, you leave everything to your beloved long-lost cousin. Among my other talents, I’m a dab hand at forging your signature. Of course, I’ve had years to practice.”
“I suppose it was you who sent out the cancellations,” Edie said wearily, and the despair in her voice tore at Jamie’s heart.
“I did, but that was just for fun.”
“And the threats to the papers?”
“Guilty as charged. All the better to set the stage for what comes next. Professor Thurloe here will be blamed for the bomb, I will be the hero of the hour, and my reward will be this hotel.”
“Jamie will stop you,” Edie bravely insisted.
“He will do nothing,” Brooks snarled, and he pulled at her hair so savagely that she screamed in agony. “He will do nothing, for he’s asleep in his bed, he and everyone else at this hotel. All it took was some doctored champagne—would you believe he even thanked me for it?” Once more Brooks tore at Edie’s hair, and the sound of her piteous cry was more than Jamie could bear.
“I thanked you,” he said, stepping forward, “just as any gentleman would. But I didn’t drink it. I hate champagne. Always have. If you’d brought me a pint of Tennent’s . . . well. But you didn’t think of that.”
Brooks whirled around, and only then did Jamie realize the mistake he had made in revealing himself, for the light of the headlamp, aimed directly at him, was utterly blinding.
He staggered back, felt a rush of air, and was just able to make out a shadow scything toward him. He raised his arms, bracing himself for a blow, and it was worse than he’d imagined, for Brooks was hammering at him with a metal bar, and each blow was savage enough to rattle the teeth in Jamie’s head. Blow after bruising blow rained down on his arms and shoulders and chest, and though he was bigger, and likely far stronger, it was only a matter of time before Brooks broke his arm or collarbone or worse.
There was another telltale hiss of air as the weapon sliced toward him, but this time, instead of blocking it, Jamie caught hold of the thing, pulled it sharply forward, and, with Brooks so close he could smell the man’s acrid breath, he reached for the light, caught hold of the headlamp, and tore the contraption off his head.
His enemy staggered back, still waving what Jamie now saw was a pry bar. They had retreated from the tunnel and were back in the cellar, were almost at the stairs, and it was far darker there. So dark that Jamie didn’t see the lump of rubble until he tripped over it and fell hard on his back.
Brooks raised the pry bar above his head and swung it down, his face twisted in a rictus of hate, but Jamie managed to roll away so the blow landed on his shoulder instead of his skull. He scrabbled at the floor, desperate to find his feet again, and when Brooks lunged forward once more Jamie scooped up a handful of dust and pebbles and flung it at the other man’s face.
Brooks shrieked, stumbling away, and tripped on the same piece of rubble that had upended Jamie moments before. He fell to his knees, hard, but before he could rise again the cellar door opened with a bang and a figure came rushing down the steps. It was Stella, and she now leaped forward and jabbed something into Brook’s back. It was, of all things, a furled umbrella.
“This gun is pointed at your heart,” she snarled. “If you move, if you so much as blink, I will kill you. That is a promise.”
Jamie pulled the pry bar from Brooks’s grasp, tossed it across the cellar, and twisted the man’s right arm behind him until he was a breath away from dislocating his shoulder. He had him prostrate on the floor a moment later, both arms secured, and though he knew his father would have disapproved, Jamie found it grimly satisfying to grind his knee into the small of the other man’s back.
