Chapter 51
The three prisoners sat in silence, then in darkness as the candle burned out.
Margaret had placed another candle and flint near at hand for when she might need them.
For all his callousness, George had not lied about their resources.
There was food and water enough in the cellar, sacks for bedding and candles for light.
Yet, as there was no need for further illumination once the candle spluttered out, they decided to spare another.
Margaret sat silently, back against the wall, her hand in Oliver’s.
Lucy faced problems head on, taking them apart and reassembling them like a model until she found a solution that made sense.
After a time there was the muted sound far above of horses hooves fading into the distance. Only once they had fully disappeared from hearing did Lucy speak.
‘Margaret. Please light the candle.’
There was a spark and on the third try the candle caught, casting what seemed like a flare to their unaccustomed eyes.
From the pouch in her dress, Lucy drew the tools she had placed there earlier in the evening, when fine-tuning her model. She had not been searched, for there was no reason to suspect a young woman like her to be holding them.
She passed the tools around her companions.
‘Our first obstacle is the shackles. I am no locksmith, but I do not imagine they will be of a complex design. Unless any of us has knowledge of such, I suggest we each try at once to improve our chances.’
The three began to try working the locks, each with their own ability, Lucy mechanically minded, Oliver dexterous and Margaret with brute strength. No obvious solution arose, but they persisted.
‘Why did you wait?’ Margaret asked softly.
‘To make sure they didn’t check on us one last time. They will be off on their way now, hopefully with all their men with them.’
Margaret nodded and continued her focus, trying to lever a pin out, but it was Oliver who had the first success, his shackle unbolting with a satisfying click. It took him several attempts to replicate this, but eventually all three were unchained and free to roam the cellar.
The door remained barred from the outside, and examination suggested that neither the timber nor the hinges would be a weak point to allow escape.
The one positive was that there was no sound of a guard or any flicker of light suggesting a lantern outside.
The shelves were all of light wood and the numerous jars offered nothing more than an unlimited food supply for their immediate future.
But Lucy had not spent her time in the darkness focusing on a single path of escape. It was simply that her alternative would be difficult and dangerous.
‘There is a small chute in the roof. It was probably added for ventilation during Sir Walter’s bottling. It was how we were able to hear the coach leaving.’
Margaret peered up at the stonework above them, noting a narrow gap in the high ceiling and a grate above it.
‘It must be fifteen feet up,’ she remarked. ‘Do we build a ladder? Make a rope?’
‘Nothing so dignified, I’m afraid,’ Lucy replied.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘She means you have to lift me,’ said Oliver bluntly.
‘Lift you?’
‘I’m tall enough and thin enough to reach it and fit through if I … If I stand on your shoulders. I know it might seem indecent but—’
‘I don’t care if it’s indecent. I’m just not sure I can manage it. But I’m willing to try.’
As Lucy had predicted, it was as far from dignified as could be imagined.
Lucy helped Oliver up and then braced her sister as best she could while Margaret very carefully and slowly rose.
They had layered some of the sacks around them, but in truth they would only be a small help if he fell.
Margaret gripped his ankles until she reached her full height and then locked herself in position as it was his turn to straighten up.
As Oliver stretched, his hands grasping for the ceiling, Lucy saw the determination on her sister’s face. Strong as she was, she was not at all accustomed to such feats and her face was flushed as she drew small rapid breaths, trying to move as little as possible.
‘There is a grate with a trapdoor above,’ Oliver called down.
By good fortune, the years of disuse had weakened the frames rather than seized them up and a small application of force was all that was required to break them open.
From there he was able to lever himself upwards, awkward and stilted, his feet rising, relieving his weight from the shoulders of his betrothed.
The grate was not designed for human passage and Oliver was aware that a slip from this height might be lethal to him and doom the others.
But, in the face of adversity and discomfort, Oliver St Martin showed a tenacity and willpower that matched that of the Elliot sisters, who watched him from below, helpless to aid him.
Over the course of a minute, inch by inch, his waist and then his feet disappeared into the darkness.
‘I shall go around,’ he whispered.
‘Be careful,’ Margaret called back quietly.
It seemed redundant, but Lucy suspected her sister had needed to say something.
They heard nothing more as Oliver shifted away into the night.
There was a risk that a guard still remained, but they could do little but wait as the seconds ticked by.
How long would it take him to enter the hall and make his way back to the basement?
He certainly knew the path well enough, but as the seconds dragged on, they could not help but wonder if something had gone wrong.
In the back of her mind, Lucy wondered if the plan failed, what might be the next plan of escape.
None that came to mind were especially hopeful and were much more dangerous. Most involved fire.
Before she could delve further into this, there was a noise and the cellar door swung open. Oliver stood, holding a lantern in one hand.
‘My apologies for the delay. They locked everything up. I had to break the window on the patio with a stray rock.’
‘We must hurry.’ Lucy was already moving past them. ‘They shall be on their way already and we need help.’
Together they ascended the stairs to the darkness of the house above.
‘Well,’ Oliver said dryly, ‘at least the coach is still here.’
‘It’s not going to be much use without horses,’ Lucy replied. Then added, ‘That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?’
The three stood looking at the empty stable, uncertain how to proceed. It was clear they were the only souls remaining at St Martins Hall, but concern for their own safety had now moved on to the greater threat.
‘We’ll never get to town in time on foot. We don’t even know where they’re heading,’ said Oliver.
‘Lord Rathbone might,’ Lucy mused. ‘He’s involved with army affairs.’
‘That’s a long way on foot.’ Margaret sighed.
‘I know a short cut.’ Oliver reached for a pair of high boots. ‘Longburn Mire.’ He pointed out into the darkness.
‘At night? That’s madness,’ exclaimed Lucy.
‘My brother and I have known the paths since childhood. Dangerous. But not madness.’
‘I’m going with you,’ Margaret insisted, casting off her shoes and reaching for another pair of boots. ‘We’ll take a rope too.’
‘You two go.’ Lucy nodded. ‘Daisy should still be tied up down by the path. I’m going to try to get help.’
‘From where?’
‘From a band of coach racers living in an abandoned castle. Be careful. Both of you.’
With that she hurried off, bearing a lantern of her own, casting one glance back as the couple, not betrothed for more than a day, set off into the darkness of Longburn Mire.