With shaking hands, I began to shift them, half expecting that my eyes were playing me tricks, and that what, in the gloom, appeared to be a latch would prove in reality to be nothing but a shadow. But when the planks had all been moved some foot or two to the left, a thick oaken door, studded with iron nails and opened by a substantial iron latch, stood revealed.
I opened it. The door swung inwards without a sound, suggesting that its hinges had also been carefully oiled. I retrieved the lantern and held it aloft, its beam lighting the walls of a second chamber. This was even further below ground than the crypt and entailed the descent of another half dozen steps before floor level could be reached. The sound of running water was quite loud now, indicating that the Wallbrook was somewhere close at hand. Moreover, the peculiar smell I had noticed was stronger here and made me want to retch.
Someone — I forget who — had once told me that beneath the London streets there still existed a warren of subterranean passages and vaults from the city’s ancient past, and here, had I doubted it, lay the proof of those words. Far above me, the hustle and bustle of the everyday world went on, but down in this stinking and fetid darkness I was in another place, another time, another life. .
With an effort, I pulled myself together and harnessed my wandering thoughts. I lifted the lantern higher and examined my surroundings. The chamber was empty, but in one corner I could see a large, semicircular aperture which, when I crouched beside it, showed itself to be a downward-sloping drain, and the sound of water gushing past was now loud in my ears. It was a channel, quite possibly Roman in origin, connecting this chamber with the stream and serving the Temple of Mithras which, according to Goody Simpkins’s friend, had once stood on or near this site.
I stood up and held the lantern above my head for one last look around, but there was nothing more to be seen. Dark stains mottled the floor, patches of fungus sprouted from the walls and quite suddenly, for no apparent reason, I could feel my flesh begin to creep. I shivered, feeling inexplicably depressed and weary.
I turned and made for the stairs.
ELEVEN
I flung wide the shutters and shouted, ‘Well? Can you see any way to get in?’
It was the following morning and I had recruited Piers Daubenay to assist me in a small experiment. I had, without its occupier’s knowledge or permission, locked, or rather bolted, myself into the room next door to Tutor Machin’s, having previously directed Piers to remain outside on the castle’s landing-stage. Now, as I leant out of the open casement, his youthful, smooth-skinned face was upturned to mine, the morning sun catching the red glints in his curly hair and turning it to copper.
‘Well?’ I demanded again testily. ‘Is there any way in which you can climb up the wall to this window?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t see one,’ he reported cheerfully. ‘This stretch of wall is smooth, But you must know that. You must have inspected it already.’
‘I just wanted a second opinion, that’s all. You would agree with me, then, that no one could have climbed into any of the rooms along this passageway from outside?’
‘Impossible,’ he confirmed.
‘Now come in and see if there is any way — any way at all — that you can get inside this room without me unbolting the door.’
‘You know fucking well it can’t be done.’
As once before, at Minster Lovell, the swear word jarred, not because I was a prude and didn’t use it myself on occasions — quite a few occasions, if I’m honest — but because it seemed deliberately chosen to prove a point. But what point? That the soft-cheeked boy was really a man who could hold his ale and curse along with the next fellow? Probably. He couldn’t possibly believe it would shock me.
‘Just come in and do as you’re told,’ I said.
A few minutes later, the latch rattled, then there was a thump as Piers presumably threw his weight against the door. Nothing happened, of course. The bolt didn’t even tremble. Like its counterpart in what had been Gregory Machin’s room, it was too stoutly made. I partially loosened it, so that only the tip of the shaft remained in the socket.
‘Try again,’ I ordered my helper. ‘Harder this time.’
Piers obliged, but once more there was no appreciable result. No one could have entered the tutor’s room even if the bolt had not been properly rammed home. I sighed and opened the door.
‘So what’s the answer?’ Piers asked as I stepped outside and went to look yet again at the neighbouring chamber.
This had at last been swept clean of the shards of wood from the broken door, although the castle carpenter had not so far had time to make and fit a new one.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘There doesn’t seem to be one.’
Piers crossed himself and made the sign to ward off the evil eye, his jaunty air suddenly deserting him.
‘There’s only one explanation then, isn’t there?’ he demanded unhappily. ‘This was the Devil’s work.’
I didn’t reply because there seemed to be no satisfactory alternative solution. And yet I still couldn’t bring myself to accept it. I felt strongly that the murder was human handiwork. For one thing, if the Devil, for whatever reason, had wanted to take Gregory Machin’s life, he would have had no need to use a dagger. Old Nick would simply have appeared and frightened the poor man to death. Or just ripped his soul from his body. No, no! The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that there was a rational explanation. But what it was, I had as yet no idea.
An exclamation from Piers made me turn sharply in the hope that he might have discovered something I had overlooked. But he had wandered over to the window and flung wide the shutters to let some air and light into the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan have just arrived at the water-stairs with all their baggage. They must have come up river by barge.’ He turned, a slight smile on his lips. ‘Now there’s likely to be some wailing and gnashing of teeth. Poor Sir Francis will be held entirely responsible for Master Gideon’s safety and will feel the full force of her ladyship’s tongue.’
A young lad, one of the household pages by the look of him, who had just mounted the stairs from the lower passageway, glanced towards us, obviously having overheard what Piers was saying.
‘Not Sir Francis any longer, if you please,’ he admonished us. ‘Word arrived from Crosby’s Place not half an hour ago that my lord’s been made a viscount and appointed Lord Chamberlain in Lord Hastings’s place.’
Piers gave a long, low whistle, and once again I felt as though someone had punched me in the chest. Things were beginning to move. The duke was taking steps to surround himself with his friends, appointing them to key positions in the government. It surely could not be long now before he took the biggest step of all and laid claim to the crown.
Piers gave an uncertain laugh as he studied my face. ‘What’s the matter, Master Chapman? You look as though you’ve lost a shilling and picked up half a groat.’
At his words, the page, who had been about to move on, swung round and examined me carefully from head to foot. ‘Are you Roger Chapman?’ he asked doubtfully. I inclined my head. ‘In that case,’ he went on, ‘Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan want to speak to you. I’ve been sent to find you. They’re in the great solar. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where it is.’