Charlotte stopped and turned around slowly, and Emily, not having noticed, bumped into her.
“Say something!” she snapped. “Don’t do that without telling me.”
“Sorry. Look! There’s a gleam. There’s glass over there. That must be the greenhouse.” And without waiting for comment she set off in the new direction. Within moments they were outside a small building where dim panes of glass reflected the fitful gleam of the moon in a watery pattern like dull satin.
“Is it locked?” Emily asked.
Charlotte put her hand to the door and tried it. It swung open under her touch, giving a painful squeak of unoiled hinges.
Emily let out a gasp, and immediately stifled it with her hand.
“Lamp!” she ordered.
As soon as they were inside Charlotte held it up and Emily lit it again. In its warm radiance the inside of the greenhouse sprang to vision. It was a small place set aside for forcing early flowers and vegetables. Trays of lettuce and marigold, delphinium, and larkspur seedlings sat on benches. Several geraniums were in pots on another shelf.
“Floor!” Emily whispered sharply. “Never mind about the shelves.”
Charlotte held the lamp down about two feet above the wooden planks on which they were standing.
“I can’t see anything,” Emily said with acute disappointment “It looks like hard-packed earth to me. Move it a bit.” This last instruction was directed at the light.
Charlotte inched farther along, holding the lamp carefully. The corner of her skirt caught a flowerpot and sent it over with a dull thud.
“Ah!” Emily drew in her breath with a suffocated cry.
“Ssh!” Charlotte moved the light again. Then she saw it: a long dark stain on the ground near the far wall. “Oh …”
Emily bent down and peered at it “It could be anything,” she said with sharp disappointment. “Look.” Above it was a shelf with various tins and bottles containing all sorts of chemicals and mixtures of fertilizer, creosote, and poison for wasps’ and ants’ nests.
“It’s probably creosote,” Charlotte said guardedly. “But not necessarily. If I had blood all over the place I should mask it by adding something strong like that. Here, pass me that trowel.”
“What are you going to do?” Emily passed it immediately.
“Dig.”
For several moments Charlotte scratched at the hard earth, painstakingly removing the ground soaked with creosote and exposing under it a further layer whose odor, when she lifted it gingerly to her nose, was quite different There was nothing sharp or pungent about it; it was stale and a little sweet.
“Blood?” Emily said with a catch in her voice.
“I think so.” Slowly Charlotte rose from her knees, her face pale. “Now we’ve got to find the barrow. Come on. It’s probably outside somewhere at this time of year.”
Very carefully, the lamp held low and half covered by a shawl, they tiptoed out of the greenhouse, pulling the door closed behind them, and into the garden again.
“You’ll have to hold the light up,” Emily said anxiously. “We’ll never see it otherwise.”
Charlotte held it up obediently.
“Where does one keep a barrow?” she said thoughtfully, her voice so low Emily barely heard it. “And the oilskins. I wonder where they are?”
“Maybe she burnt them?” Emily suggested. “I would.”
“Only if you’ve got an incinerator, and the servants wouldn’t notice. Oilskins would make a terrible smell. Anyway, I don’t suppose they are hers. They probably belong to the gardener. He’d miss them. No, she’d wash them off thoroughly and put them back. There must be a shed somewhere, for spades and forks and so on.” She turned around slowly, holding the light higher.
“There!” Emily said hastily, just at the same moment as Charlotte saw it. “Put the light down! Someone’ll see it! Come on, hurry up!”
At a rapid shuffle, so as not to trip or bump into anything, they moved towards the shed, which mercifully was not locked either. Once inside, the light was set on the bench, although it was hardly necessary. The wheelbarrow was immediately apparent, and the oilskins were hung on a peg above it.
Emily gave a little squeak of fear, and Charlotte shivered with a sudden consciousness of horror, knowing what it was she saw. Very carefully, her heart beating so violently it seemed as if her whole body shook with it, she put out her hand and ran her finger over the wooden surface of the wheelbarrow.
“Is it wet?” Emily asked.
“No, of course not,” Charlotte replied. “But it is stained pretty badly. I think it’s creosote again.” She moved over to the oilskins and held the lamp close up to them. “There’s something in the seams here. I’m sure that’s blood.”
“Then come on!” Emily whispered urgently. “We’ve got enough! Let’s leave before someone catches us!”
Gratefully Charlotte turned around and retreated, snagging her shawl on the barrow handle and yanking it in sudden fear.
Outside, they were about to douse the light and try to make their way back around the conservatory towards the wall when they saw another light about ten yards ahead of them, in the garden.
