“Sir Richard is in there.” Lady Mary gestured. “He’s bolted the door.”
“My grandfather is in there, too,” Kate said and stopped.
“Sir Richard is very ill,” Webster said. “We must find a way to reach him.”
“The dungeon,” Kate exclaimed. “There’s a passage—”
“The door to it is solid iron,” Lady Mary reminded her. “And it’s locked.”
“There’ll be a key somewhere,” Webster said. “The lock will be rusty, of course, but if there was a hatchet—”
“Wait,” John cried. “Is there electricity down there?”
“Yes,” Kate told him. “Sir Richard’s father had it put in for the wine cellars.”
“If the door’s iron—” Webster began but John cut him short.
“One of my men had an electric drill with him, he was coming back tomorrow to get it.”
He turned quickly and sped back through the passage, Kate after him. By the time Lady Mary and Webster could reach the dungeon door they heard the sound of the electric drill cutting through the metal. The machine made hideous noises and it was impossible to speak. They could only wait.
“Now,” John said at last, “help me, Webster. This door is heavy and we must let it fall easily. Lucky it’s narrow! Kate, take this machine away. Now then, Webster — you on that side. I’ll take this. Stand back, please, Lady Mary.”
They obeyed him without a word. Together he and Webster lowered the door slowly to the stone floor. They peered into the darkness beyond and saw a windowless cell. John stepped over the threshold.
“It’s a shaft,” he exclaimed. “Look, Webster — there’s no ceiling. I see a square of light at the top.”
Webster went in and stared upward. “You’re right — it leads up the tower.”
“How to get there,” John mused. “There must be steps — yes — in the wall here. Can you feel them?”
“Good God, yes,” Webster exclaimed. “But I’d hate to—”
“Do you hear a voice?” Lady Mary called.
“Not even a whisper,” John answered. He was searching the steps carved into the rock. “I can climb. I’ll climb up and see — what—”
“Oh no!” It was Kate, pressing into the shaft. “Oh please, don’t climb up there. If you fall—”
“I shan’t fall,” John said. “I’m a mountain climber, Kate — a good one.”
He was already beginning to climb, clinging with his hands to the step above him, feeling his way.
“Oh, but what will happen to you when you get there?” she cried, wringing her hands. “How do you know—”
“The only way to know is to find out. Take Lady Mary upstairs. Obey me, Kate — Webster, go with them. I’ll meet you at the top when I get that door open.”
They obeyed again and alone he climbed slowly but skillfully the shallow steps. The square opening at the top was, he surmised, a trapdoor. He remembered such a door in the old stables of his childhood home in Connecticut. Then he had climbed through tunnels of hay. Now he climbed through rock, trying not to think, determined not to be afraid. The silence was unearthly, not a voice, not a sound. Where was Sir Richard?
Endlessly he climbed, trying to make no noise. Once on the edge of a step his hand slipped and he was all but catapulted to the bottom of the shaft, but he caught himself on the step above. Hand over hand, one foot after the other, he felt his way to the opening and pulled himself through the trapdoor and into the room. It was ablaze with light from a lamp set on a carved oak table. He tried to shut the trapdoor, but it would not fold back on its ancient hinges.
Someone was sitting at the table in a great oaken chair, a strange figure wrapped in an old robe of purple velvet, and wearing a gold crown — no, a crown of gold tinsel. Sir Richard! It could not be and yet he knew instantly that it was. He was mumbling over a book, an enormous book, and he was holding something in his right hand, resting one end on the floor. A scepter? It looked the real thing. Heavy with gold and glittering with encrusted jewels! There was this much treasure then. Sir Richard had found it. Why in heaven’s name was he hiding it here? What was the mystery?
John stood alone by the trapdoor. Should he speak? He must speak—
“Sir Richard,” he said gently.
Sir Richard lifted his head as though to listen, and without answer let it fall again as though be had not heard. Then John saw what lay beside the door, the crumpled body of Wells! Beside it was a sword, a long, thin blade, and, he saw to his horror, it was still shining wet with blood.
He stood in shock, staring at the sight. Sir Richard was mumbling again, his head sunken on his breast. What could be done? John wondered. Certainly he must not rouse him until the door was opened. He remained motionless, endeavoring to see whether the bolt of the door was still shot into the hasp. Bolt? There were three bolts! All bolts were shot, the door still barred. He must creep to it without a sound and draw the bolts back one after the other, and so throw the door open. But the sword — he must take that, for safety, and keep it near him.
Holding his breath, his eyes upon Sir Richard, he reached the door and put out his hand across the dead body. Poor Wells! He looked away from the dead face set in a grimace of fear, the open eyes. … The first bolt drew easily without a sound. The second bolt made a slight screech. The mumbling stopped. He stood motionless for an instant and then turned to look behind him. Sir Richard had not moved. He still sat with his head bent above the book, seeing nothing and yet intent on the open page.
But he was silent! Were his eyes closed? It might be that he had fallen into a doze. He waited, watching — perhaps Sir Richard was asleep, the light sleep of the aged. He must make haste. He tried to draw the third bolt back. It was stiff and would not yield easily. He had to use both hands and all his strength. The bolt was not half drawn when he felt something at his back, something sharp and pressing. He glanced backward toward his right. The sword was gone from the floor. He knew instantly whose hand held it.
“Sir Richard,” he said distinctly. “I am here only to help you.”
At this the sword pressed more deeply, forcing him to move toward the left, and yet he could not escape it. However he moved, Sir Richard held the sword into his back, cutting through his clothes, he could now feel, and pricking his skin.
“I wanted this meeting,” Sir Richard muttered through his clenched teeth. “I sought it! This settles everything between us after all these years, now you are in my power. After all these years — pursuing me—”
“Sir Richard, recall yourself,” John urged. He was being pushed step by step toward the trapdoor, the sword in his back.
“Forcing me to hide my son to save his life — in vain — in vain! Your bombs killed him.”
Son? What son? Sir Richard had no son. A dream of a son never born!
He felt a stab of pain and a warm trickle down his back.
“Sir Richard! I am your friend,” he cried desperately. “You can’t hate a friend — come now!”
“I do not deign to hate you,” Sir Richard retorted. “And call me by my proper name! What I do is my duty as a king. I could have had you poisoned while you sat at my table. But that would have burdened others. This task I must perform alone. To your knees, to your knees—”
For John had twisted himself suddenly up and now the two faced each other. … Good God, the absurdity of this, that he should be at the mercy of a mad old Englishman! Yet here he was, pinned between the point of a sword and a trapdoor. He had been a good fencer at Harvard. Once in his freshman year he had caught a sword in his hand, and he knew how fierce a weapon a sword was.