Was that the problem? Had reality become too much? Had Yvonne regretted having sex with Len? I couldn’t see it. She didn’t strike me as someone who’d make impulsive decisions she’d later regret, but of course, I’d only known her for two days. How could I make assumptions about her personality and state of mind? Observant I might be, but I wasn’t clairvoyant, and I had no business jumping to conclusions.
We reached the end of the corridor and found ourselves confronted with an iron-studded oak door. “This looks ancient,” I said, reaching out to touch the wood.
“It must be the wine cellar,” Kyle said.
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“All those bottles of wine have to come from somewhere,” Kyle pointed out. “And what self-respecting lord of the manor didn’t have a cellar for his wine?” he added, a smile tugging at his lips. “Not like they could pop out to the off-license and pick up a bottle of Chardonnay. Hell, even now, it’d probably take them a minimum of two hours to run out to the shops. This place is pretty isolated.”
Kyle turned the iron handle and opened the door. Light from the corridor fell onto shelves and shelves of wine bottles that lined the walls. I didn’t know much about wine, but some of those bottles were probably worth a few quid. This was not the wine Lisa and Alastair served upstairs. The further back we went, the dustier the bottles became, not having been touched in years, possibly decades. The contents of this cellar would fetch thousands if the Prentisses chose to dispose of the lot.
I was still trying to make out the dusty labels when Kyle gasped loudly and trotted toward the back wall. I peered into the shadows, wondering what he’d seen. It was then that I noticed a bare foot barely visible behind the last shelf. The nails were painted blood red, the color distinguishable even in the dim light from the door. I hurried after Kyle, my heart thudding as all sorts of scenarios played out in my mind.
Yvonne lay slumped against the back wall, her head dipped to the side and her eyes closed, her face deathly pale. She was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn last night, but I strongly suspected that there was nothing beneath her dress, her underclothes probably still in Len’s room. Yvonne’s legs were spread like the metal arms of a math compass. She reeked of booze and sex, and I could see a few inches of her inner thigh, the hem of her dress dangerously close to exposing her completely. I tore my gaze away, feeling like a voyeur.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Is she—”
Kyle knelt next to Yvonne and pressed his fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. “No, but she’s completely comatose.” He pulled down her dress, covering her modestly before taking in the scene. There was a corkscrew, and several empty bottles, the glass dusty and the labels faded to yellowed rectangles of paper.
“She must have come down here after leaving Len and got stinking drunk,” Kyle said. “Give me a light.”
I used the flashlight on my phone but didn’t shine the light directly on Yvonne. I held the phone sideways, watching as Kyle carefully lifted Yvonne’s face with his finger. Even from where I stood, I could make out traces of white powder around her nostrils.
Kyle shook his head in dismay. “We need to get her upstairs. She’s ice cold. She must have lain here for hours.”
He reached beneath her and scooped her up, lifting her with ease. Just as I was about to follow him, the light from my phone passed over the bit of wall Yvonne had been slumped against, and I noticed something etched into the stone. It was low to the ground and looked like it may have been scratched with a nail or some other bit of metal. It was just one word, but it jolted me as if I’d been shocked by electricity.
ALYS.
This must be where she’d been kept the night before her execution and where Brittany had seen the name.
I tore my gaze away from the writing on the wall and hurried after Kyle, who was waiting for me to open the door for him. He carried Yvonne upstairs and laid her on a sofa in the sitting room, positioning her so that her feet were closer to the fire in the ornate fireplace. She didn’t stir.
“What happened?” Anna cried as she and Paul walked in. She crossed the room and sat down next to Yvonne, taking hold of her wrist. Paul leaned over her shoulder, staring at Yvonne in mute fascination.
“I’m going to call for an ambulance,” I said, about to dial 9-9-9.
“Don’t,” Anna said brusquely.
“Why not? She needs medical attention.”
“She needs to sleep it off,” Anna replied. “She wouldn’t appreciate us calling emergency services. Her name will be all over the papers by morning. Award-winning writer overdoses on booze and cocaine,” Anna said, inventing a fitting headline. “They’d probably even manage to get a photo of her in this state.”
“How would they?” I asked, not sure I should accept Anna’s opinion.
“I used to be an A&E nurse before my writing career took off. There are some journalists who hang around hospitals, hoping for just such an opportunity. They’re small potatoes, and it’s a way for them to make a name for themselves.”
“Are you sure she’ll be all right?”
