“I haven’t seen any.”
The giddiness was beginning to recede. He said, “Tell me about the steps.”
“They’re there, just to our right. They’re barred by an iron gate at the base and a stout wooden door at the top.”
He could see them now, worn shadowy steps disappearing upward. He lurched to his feet and reached for the lantern. She got to it first.
“If you insist on inspecting the gate, I’ll carry the lantern. If you drop it, I’ve no way to rekindle the candle and neither do you.”
“How do you know I’ve no tinderbox?”
“I checked your pockets.”
He clapped a hand to the capacious pocket of his groom’s coat. His pistol was gone. With difficulty, he overcame the impulse to swear long and crudely.
The gate covered an arched opening some four feet wide. Built of iron, with thick vertical bars braced top and bottom by stout crosspieces, it looked newly installed, without a trace of rust. A thick chain had been wrapped around the bars twice, then secured by a heavy padlock well beyond his reach. He clasped both hands around one of the iron bars and pushed. Its solidity mocked him.
She said, “I did check it. It’s quite strong.”
He tested each bar and crosspiece himself, just to be certain, but he doubted even the strength of ten men could dislodge them. Breathing heavily again, he leaned against the gate, his gaze on the stairwell it protected. From here he could see that the steps led up to a stout wooden door set into a corbeled arch at the top. He said, “There was a woman in the house. A young woman. Did you see her?”
Miss Jarvis shook her head. “They never took me into the house. These steps lead down from an alcove in the garden wall near the river.”
He could see a point, some ten or twelve steps up, where the stonework used for the steps changed, became darker, less worn, as if it were of more recent construction. He’d heard tales of the building of the old Somerset House by Edward Seymour, about how he’d appropriated land occupied by the inns of the Bishops of Chester and Lichfield, Coventry and Worcester. The old bishops’ palaces had been pulled down, their building materials either reused or dumped as fill to raise the height of the garden for a terrace.
“Let me see the lantern,” he said, reaching for it.
“Are you quite certain you’re—”
“I’m fine.” Holding the lantern aloft, he explored the crypt. Built of worked sandstone blocks, it was a space some forty-five to fifty feet long and five bays wide, the ceiling vaults supported on rows of squat, plain pillars. One end was neatly walled off with a darker sandstone that reminded him of the upper steps. At the other end, the far reaches of the chamber disappeared beneath a cascade of rubble.
He played the lantern light over the jumble of stones, some rough, others shaped but broken. Here and there he saw glimpses of carvings, of scrollwork and carefully incised patterns.
“That’s where the river is,” she said, coming to stand beside him.
“How far?”
“Some ten or twelve feet, I’d say.”
So much for any wild schemes of digging through the rubble to freedom.
“I’ve seen engravings of the Thames from the days when the bishops’ palaces stretched from the river to the Strand,” she said. “Some of them were constructed over arches that opened to the river. Barges used to come up the river and then pull in under the arches to unload. It could be that’s what this is from.”
“So maybe it won’t flood completely,” he said, his head falling back as he studied the worn stone of the ceiling vaults.
“I suspect they tested the theory before they left us down here to die,” she said drily.
He glanced over at her. She’d kept pace with him as he prowled the crypt, her hands still clutching her elbows in close to her sides. He said, “Why leave us down here? Why not simply kill us outright?”
She squared her shoulders. “As I understand it, their intention is to throw our bodies in the river. Make it look as if we suffered an accident. Any autopsy would simply show that we’d drowned, wouldn’t it?”
“Why would they care whether or not it was obvious we were murdered?”
“That I don’t know.”
He met her gaze. Her eyes were dilated so wide they looked black. “I don’t intend to drown,” he said, turning back toward the steps.
She trailed after him—or, more exactly, after the light. “Well, that’s reassuring.”
He laughed softly, the lantern making a chink as he set it down on the stone paving. “We could try shouting.”
“I did. Do you have any idea how much earth there is on top of us?”
He was trying not to think about that.
“Where are you going?” she asked as he headed back toward the rubble wall.
He selected a massive chunk of what looked like a broken ionic capital from some long-ago despoiled church. Bending his knees and grunting, he hoisted it to his chest, his head swimming sickeningly. She watched, silent, as he staggered back toward the gate and heaved it at the padlocked chain. It clattered against the iron, then crashed to the stone floor. The chained gate held firm.
