"Yes."
"Is that what all the salt is for?"
"Yes, yes. It hurts them."
"What kind of things are they?"
"I don't know, I've never seen them—"
"But you've heard them, haven't you, at night?"
"Yes. Please don't hurt me anymore, I'm begging you," Nicholson groveled, trying to wrap himself around Sparks's boot.
"You sold some land of yours last year, Charley. Quite a lot of land, do you remember that?" said Sparks, kicking him away. "Answer me!"
"I don't remember—"
"Listen to me: You sold some land in the north that was deeded to you; it belonged to your family. You sold it to a man: General Drummond."
"The General?" Nicholson looked up, stupid and grateful at the sound of something familiar.
"Do you remember, Charley? Do you remember the General?"
"The General came here. He came with my wife."
"The General is a friend of your wife's, is he?"
"Yes, yes, they're good friends. The General's a nice man. He brings me sweets and caramels. He brought me a pony once. A dappled gray. I named him Wellington," Nicholson babbled, retreating further into childhood. Whatever starch had kept his adult personality intact throughout the siege of Topping evaporated before their eyes.
"He made you sign some things, didn't he, Charley, the last time the General was here. Legal documents. Some pieces of paper."
"Yes, so many, so many papers. They said I had to sign, or he'd take away my pony," he said, beginning to cry again.
"And immediately after you signed these papers, that's when your wife left you, isn't it? She left with the General?"
"Yes, sir."
"And she took your son with her, didn't she?"
"Y-y-yes, sir."
"How long were you married?"
"Four years."
"Did she live here with you at Topping that entire time?"
"No. She came and went."
"Where did she go?"
"She never told me."
"What did your wife do before you married her?"
Nicholson shook his head, drawing an honest blank.
"Did she ever tell you anything about her family?"
"She said her family owned a ... publishing company."
"In London?" Doyle asked involuntarily.
"Yes, in London," said Nicholson, now indiscriminately servile.
"Where in London, Charley?" said Sparks.
"I went there once. Across from the big museum—"
"Russell Street?"
Nicholson nodded. There was a loud hammering at the door.
"Out the window," shouted Barry from the hallway.
From somewhere below, they heard the sound of breaking glass. Sparks moved to the window and drew the curtain. Doyle joined him.
The figure in black from the inn at Cambridge was moving across the courtyard toward the front door, a half-dozen gray hoods fanning out across the grounds behind him.
"More of them this time," said Sparks calmly.
"Is it her?" cried Nicholson in terror. "It is, isn't it? She's come for me!"
"We're going to leave you now, Charles," said Sparks, not without some kindness. "Load your gun, lock the door after us. don't open it for anyone, and happy New Year to you."
Sparks tossed the bullets toward Nicholson and stepped rapidly to the door. Working together, Sparks and Doyle had iie locks undone in moments, and they moved out to join Barry in the hall. Doyle's last glimpse before Barry pulled the door shut behind them was of Lord Nicholson keening hysterically, scrambling on his hands and knees trying to gather up :he scattered bullets.
"Brought in the bags," Barry said as they ran down the hall. "Went back to feed the horses; that bleedin' growler's flyin' hell-bent down the lane."
"All the exits blocked?" Sparks said, drawing out his blade.
"Yeh. We've lost the coach. More of them hoods this go-around."
"Did you manage to open that door in the pantry?"
"I've had me hands full, haven't I?" said Barry, showing a bit of crust.
"Quickly, Barry, they won't be long getting in."
"Shouldn't we bring Lord Nicholson?" asked Doyle.
"He's done enough damage."
"But they'll kill him—"
"He's past redemption."
They ran down the stairs and through the great hall. A heavy pounding began at the door. Windows shattered all along the front wall; an arm groped through an opening, hand looking for a latch. Barry led them away, through a knotted sequence of rooms to the kitchen and into the adjacent larder.
"Watch this," said Barry.
Barry pulled a sack of flour off a shelf in the larder; the opposite wall rose up and disappeared into the ceiling like a sash-weighted window, revealing behind it the mysterious door he'd described.
"Ingenious," said Sparks. "My compliments to the architect."
"Got a lock on it you won't find in some banks," said Barry, as he unfolded a cache of his tools and went to work on the formidable padlock.
A crash from somewhere deep in the house announced the invaders had breached the outer fortifications.
"Give me a hand here, Doyle," said Sparks, pushing a table against the kitchen door. They piled the rest of the room's furniture on top of the table, readied their weapons, and waited for Barry to punch through.
"What's your diagnosis of the woeful Charley?" asked Sparks.
"Incipient madness. Probably tertiary syphilis," said Doyle.
"Dead from the neck up. More holes in his brain than a beehive."
They heard hurried, muffled footsteps on the stairs and floors above. The thwack of Barry driving a spike into the lock resounded in that small space like a gunshot."
"Easy on, Barry."
"I'd use a blancmange, but I don't fink it would have the same effect," said Barry, annoyed.
"Thank you, Barry," said Sparks, batting back the sarcasm.
"I wish he'd remembered the name of that publishing house," Doyle said.
"We'll find it easily enough. Provided we make it back to London alive—how's it coming, Barry?"
"Have it off in a pig's whisper."
"Even allowing for the delusions common to his illness, it appears Lady Nicholson wasn't quite the innocent we took her for," admitted Doyle.
"Women seldom are."
Barry broke through the lock and pushed open the door. The smell that greeted them on the wind that rose from below was dank, ageless, and as stale as the grave. Sparks took the lead, and they went down the first few steps. Carved right out of the earth, they were steep, slippery with moss, and crudely crafted. The light from the kitchen penetrated only a short distance beyond where they stood before the steps disappeared into Stygian blackness.
"Got a lantern here," said Barry, plucking an oil lamp off a hook on the earthen wall. He struck a match and lit the wick; its pale amber glow plowed only a small dent in the subterranean murk. Sparks took the lantern and started down.
"Mind your step. It's slick as ice," said Sparks.
"Pull that knob by the jamb, if you'd be so kind, guv," requested Barry.
Doyle gave the knob a yank; the false wall slid smoothly back down into the larder, concealing the entrance.
"The door, too, if you would," advised Barry.
Doyle shut the door and laid across it a welcomely substantial iron bar sealing them in, committing them to their descent. The stairs seemed to go on interminably. Their footsteps echoed flatly, as the mossy dirt steps gave way to rough-hewn rock. The walls soon receded; sheer drop-offs into darkness fell away to either side. The lantern's faint illumination could only hint at the ghostly limits of a vast cavern opening around them. Wind whistled and howled. They heard the squeak and rustle of vermin below them scurrying away from human approach.
"What is this place?" asked Doyle.
"The only hand of man in here are these steps," said Sparks. "A natural formation. Topping house was constructed over it. Maybe a sea cave."
"We're a good fifteen miles from the shore."