flight of steps outside led up to the main entrance on the middle floor; the upper floor had glazed windows and was probably the old lady's private apartments; the lower floor was virtually windowless and was doubtless used for storage.
Climbing the stairs, Bartholomew found that the heavy, metal-studded door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open and walked lightly into the large room that served as a hall. He glanced around quickly but there was nothing much to see: trestle-tables had been set up ready for the midday meal and trenchers laid at regular intervals along them.
Quelling his nervousness, Bartholomew tiptoed across to the narrow spiral staircase in the far corner and ascended to the upper floor. This was divided into two smaller rooms, each with a garderobe passage and a fireplace. One room was unmistakeably masculine, and a scholar's tabard thrown carelessly over a chest indicated that Thomas Bigod probably used it when he visited his grandmother. Bartholomew's heart began to thump, as his fear of being caught grew with each door he opened.
But there was nothing in the hall, or the chambers above, of remote interest to him, and no sign that Dominica had been kept there.
He crept back down the staircase to the hall. At the far end, opposite the hearth, was a screen, behind which stood a long table for the servants to use when preparing meals — like many houses, the kitchens were in an outbuilding to reduce the ever-present risk of fire.
Under the table was a trapdoor with a ladder that led to the lower floor. The basement was lit by narrow slits, and smelled musty and damp. The dankness suggested that it was not used for storage and was usually empty. A quick glance round told Bartholomew there was nothing to see whatsoever, that he should give up his wild notion of locating where Dominica had been and leave the tower-house before he was apprehended.
Suddenly he became aware of voices and froze in horror. Surely the mass could not be over yet, bad and fast Latin notwithstanding! He felt his stomach churn in anticipation of being discovered, realising that he had been foolish to enter the tower-house alone. What if Bigod found him? His henchmen could easily knock him on the head, dump him in the river and no one would ever know what had become of him. And even if Bigod did baulk at cold- blooded murder, Bartholomew would be hard-pressed to explain to the Sheriff what he was doing prowling around the house of someone he had never met while she was at church.
He fought down his panic. The voices were not coming closer. In fact, they seemed to be emanating from underneath him. Cautiously, he peered around in the gloom until he saw a second trapdoor leading to another chamber — like a bottle-dungeon below ground level that he had once seen in a castle in France. He eased the trapdoor up a fraction, noting that the hinges were well oiled, and that the wood was new. The voices came clearly through the gap now. A woman's voice, remonstrating with a man. Dominica?
He eased the trapdoor up a little more, so that he could see down into the lower storey. What he saw was not a bottle-dungeon, deep and dark and rank-smelling with offal, but a well-lit, pleasantly decorated room. A wooden ladder led up to the trapdoor and there were no locks to seal it from without. This arrangement was obviously not to keep someone prisoner but to allow its occupant to come and go at will. He glanced around the chamber in which he knelt. Piles of rushes were heaped around the walls and a heavy-looking chest stood nearby. Doubtless the rushes could be spread and the chest dragged across the trapdoor to hide it, should the underground chamber need to be kept from prying eyes.
The speakers were out of sight; Bartholomew looked down at the tapestries on the walls and the rich woollen rugs on the floor with astonishment. Delicate silver drinking vessels stood in a neat line across a table draped with a lace cloth; the remains of what had probably been a fine breakfast sat in a tray nearby. By changing position, Bartholomew saw that the underground chamber housed two compartments. The second was probably a bedroom.
The voices suddenly grew louder as the speakers moved into the room immediately below Bartholomew. Thomas Bigod's distinct accent wafted up first, accompanied by the unpleasant nasal wheedling of Cecily Lydgate. So that was where she had been hiding from her husband, thought Bartholomew, mystified.
Bigod put his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to climb up it, as, in the same instant, voices came from the hall above. Lowering the trapdoor in panic, Bartholomew looked round desperately for somewhere to hide. There was only one possible place and he was relieved beyond measure to find the chest was empty.
He had just managed to close the hefty lid with unsteady hands when, simultaneously, he heard footsteps on the ladder from the hall and Bigod pushing open the lower trapdoor.
Inside, the chest was airless and pitch black. Bartholomew dared not try to lift the lid a fraction, lest it make a noise and give him away. His heart was thumping so much that he wondered if it were shaking the chest.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what was being said in the basement outside.
Bartholomew deduced, from her characteristic whine, that Cecily Lydgate had followed Bigod up the ladder.
Did that mean that she was with Dominica in the hideous underground boudoir? Bartholomew strained his ears but with the chest sturdily made, it was difficult to hear much at all.
'Edred did,' he heard Cecily say, 'with Thomas.' Which Thomas? Bartholomew wondered: her husband Thomas Lydgate or Thomas Bigod? '… relic is in Valence Marie.' Bigod again, talking about the skeletal discovery that would make Valence Marie rich.
Bartholomew tried to ease the lid open to hear better, but felt the hinges judder and knew it would squeak if he tried to raise it further.
'Thomas does not know yet… Werbergh has been told not to tell him…' Cecily's whine. She must be referring to her husband now, since she was referring to a Godwinsson student. Bartholomew determined to talk to the untruthful Brother Werbergh again as soon as possible — if he ever escaped from his predicament.
There was a long pause, during which Bartholomew thought he heard the trapdoor being lowered into place, and Cecily, in childishly giggling tones, bid Bigod farewell as she went back down to her underground hideaway.
Bartholomew was so tense that his palms were slippery with sweat and stung where his nails had dug into them; his shoulders and neck ached. If Bigod were to pull the chest across the trapdoor to hide it now, Bartholomew's weight would surely betray him! Or perhaps Bigod would just snap shut the sturdy lock that hung on the side of the chest, and leave him there. That thought made the saliva dry up inside Bartholomew's mouth and he felt as if he could not breathe. He bit his lower lip hard and tried to control his rising hysteria.
'Dominica dead…' came Bigod's Norfolk-accented voice, a few moments later. So Dominica was dead after all, and he had been right. He wondered if the identity of her killers was what Werbergh was not to tell Thomas Lydgate. Unless it was Thomas Lydgate who had killed her, with Edred. But that seemed unlikely, for if so, why would Lydgate then risk going to his daughter's grave? 'And the next riot will be on Thursday night,' came a new voice, loud and clear, with a note of finality. The voice was familiar but Bartholomew could not place it.
He heard footsteps climbing the ladder to the hall, then the chamber was silent. Cautiously, he pushed up the lid of the chest, his stomach flipping over for an unpleasant moment when it stuck. There was a low, but very audible, groan from the protesting hinges as it rose and Bartholomew was glad he had not tried to raise it when Bigod and his co-conspirators were in the room. He listened carefully. Cecily was now safely ensconced within her underground chamber with the trapdoor closed. Some of the rushes had been scattered, so that, unless someone knew where to look, the lower trapdoor was concealed from casual observers. The upper trapdoor remained open.
It had been closed when Bartholomew had entered the basement. Was someone planning to come back? Were the servants and the old lady back from mass yet? He listened, but could hear nothing. Just as he was about to climb out, the trapdoor darkened and someone began to descend the ladder, whistling as he came. Bartholomew swore softly to himself, ducked inside the chest, and eased the lid back down. This time, to give himself some air and to allow him to see and hear what was happening, he groped around for something to wedge between the rim of the chest and the lid. His fingers closed on the handle of an old pottery jug that had been lying in the bottom of the chest with sundry other bits of rubbish: some rags screwed up into balls, a rusty knife, and some flowers withered to a crisp brown.
Legs paused in front of the chest, and Bartholomew reached silently for the rusty knife, bracing himself for the lid to be thrown open. Whatwould he do if it were? His legs were numb from crouching and he doubted whether he would be able to react fast enough to prevent the man from raising the alarm. Bartholomew held his breath,
