Chapter 24
For a long while, I leaned against the stone wall of my prison, rubbing my throbbing knee and clenching my jaw against the pain.
There was no sense wasting my breath calling out, either for help or to relieve my pique. We’d come deep into the cellars, and I doubted anyone would hear me.
I strove to let reason countermand my panic. I’d brought Brewster with me, and he’d wonder after a time where I’d got to. Brewster would have no qualms about shouldering his way in and searching the house, no matter who lived here.
Of course, Michel might somehow have rid himself of Brewster as well.
I tamped down that surge of uneasiness. Brewster would not be easily bested, and he’d raise an alarm if nothing else.
Why was Michel not at the Deveres’ factory, banging on bars of iron and intimidating unexpected visitors? What had he to do with the comte? Or the comtesse?
Perhaps he’d been following me, concluding I meant to accuse the Deveres of murdering Potier long ago and Gallo more recently. He might have decided I’d come here tonight to consult with the comte or comtesse about the deaths.
Or, he’d been making a delivery to the chateau, seen me, and thought he’d take the chance to punish me for my meddling.
But he’d come from the tunnels and known exactly where to sequester me inside them.
My thoughts spun in the absolute darkness as my body began to stiffen in the cool, damp air. My suit was of light fabric for summer, but no June warmth reached into the depths of this house.
Brewster would find me, I assured myself. When I failed to emerge after a certain amount of time, he’d try to discover why. No one could deter Brewster when he decided to act.
Donata, too, would miss me. We were staying in tonight, so we could rise early for the wedding in the morning. Donata would wonder why I lingered so long at the chateau, and likely send Bartholomew to inquire. Everyone in our house knew where I’d gone.
Even so, it could be some time before a rescue. I might catch a chill or a fever in this dank place, and who knew how much air this room held?
To cease such dire musings, I began to explore my prison. I started with the door, when I found it again, pressing my gloved hands over its surface.
It was made of rough wood, with horizontal bands placed over vertical boards, tacked in place with iron bolts. The hinges were also cold iron, and the latch, which did nothing when I jiggled it, was likewise of that metal.
If the door had been more ancient, I might have been able to kick my way through any rotten boards. However, it felt solid and fairly new, meaning whoever maintained the comtesse’s house had recently installed it, probably with iron fixings made by the Deveres.
Leaving the door, I groped my way along the wall beside it, going slowly and carefully. I did not want to tear my hand on a protruding nail or piece of wood and give myself a festering wound.
The wall extended from the door only about five feet. I hit a corner and turned it, encountering a tall set of standing shelves a few feet from there.
I eagerly examined these, hoping to find tools of some kind with which I could pry open the door.
To my disappointment, the shelves were mostly empty.
I did come across an open wooden box of what felt like rags inside, perhaps ones shoved in here and forgotten sometime in the past, but nothing more.
The wall ended not far beyond the shelves and turned again.
The stones became round and smooth here, contrasting the regular bricks of the other walls.
I imagined this was part of the original chateau, constructed hundreds of years ago, the brick walls later installed to divide the space into smaller rooms.
While fascinating from an architectural point of view, it was not very helpful to me at the moment. Behind these old stones was probably the hill itself, the masonry propping the cellars against the dirt beyond.
My only hope of escape, it seemed, was through the door.
I discovered a much smaller set of shelves on the old wall, this one more like a compact bookcase. On that, I found bottles. Dust puffed when I slid my hand across the glass, making me sneeze.
I removed a glove and lifted one of the bottles. It was heavy and sloshed with liquid.
I’d once used grease and flame to set fire to a door behind which I’d been trapped, but I did not want to attempt that here. The smoke would quickly fill this little space and overwhelm me.
Also, as I’d observed before, I had no way to strike a spark. An oversight I would correct, if I ever gained my freedom.
I found a cork jammed tightly into the top of the bottle. That, at least, I could deal with.
I removed the small knife I carried in my pocket. Its blade was too short and delicate to help me much with the door, but it could pry a cork from a bottle.
I worked carefully, in case I unleashed a vitriolic substance, but as soon as the cork moved, I smiled.
The odor assaulting me came not from a dangerous oil or other corrosive substance, but from the warm sweetness of wine.
Had a servant hidden the bottles for himself, meaning to fetch them another time? Or had this been a storage room for drink, this cache somehow missed when the rest of the room had been emptied?
Whatever the case, I’d broached the bottle, and it would be a shame to waste what was inside. I upended the flask and tipped the liquid into my dry mouth.
The freshness of grapes picked early in the season assailed me, the wine light, airy, and crisp. It was perhaps not the aged, mellow substance that Grenville would prefer, but it danced on my palate and nicely eased my worries.
Holding the bottle in one hand, I finished my exploration of my cell. The brick wall beyond to the wine shelf was empty, and then it turned a corner, and I was back at the door.
I leaned against the wood and took another gulp of wine. My first panic assuaged, I now pondered my situation.
Michel had most likely followed me here, perhaps vowing to keep an eye on me until I departed for England. I’d asked Emile not to speak to the family about my speculations on Potier, but he’d found a confidante in Michel previously, and possibly had again.
How, though, had Michel gained entrance to the chateau? He’d been lurking behind the door in the gallery, lying in wait to pull me through. He might have found his way up through the tunnels, but from Brewster’s report, the entire place was not only a labyrinth but well guarded.
Of course, Michel could be a frequent visitor to the chateau, delivering goods for the Deveres, who likely had provided the ironworks for this very stout door.
In that case, the guards would know Michel and have no worry about admitting him.
The comtesse and her family must have a long association with the Deveres, perhaps one stretching back decades.
Ideas clicked together in my head, aided by this excellent wine.
Easing my fears and was only one reason I’d opened the bottle. I took another sip, savoring, then I bent down and poured the rest of the liquid out through the crack beneath the door.
Brewster might already by hunting me. If he found a puddle of wine outside one of the doors in the cellar, he’d insist on investigating the room behind it. My action would narrow down his search and save him some time.
Now to wait.
My leg ached, the cold not helping. I limped back to the wine shelf and took up a second bottle. I slid down the wall until I rested on the floor and pried out the cork.
This bottle, I used to warm myself and ease the pain in my leg.
Again, I found a refreshing, cool wine, which held the faint taste of apples. I breathed in autumn air, the scents of harvest, a cooling wind across sun-dappled vineyards.
I drank half the bottle before I made myself cease. I knew from experience on the Peninsula that nodding off in a cold, damp place could be dangerous. A person’s body might chill until it couldn’t warm again, even if the temperature wasn’t all that frigid.
I poured the second half of that bottle under the door, then leaned my head against the wall.
Had Michel killed Gallo? To defend the Devere brothers? I could well imagine it.
However, Michel would likely be wise enough, and strong enough, to toss the man’s body into the river, instead of leaving Gallo to be found by the first person over the bridge.
Michel could not have assisted in the murder of Potier—that had been twenty-five years ago, and he must have been a wee lad then. But he might have known about the murder if he’d worked for the Deveres, or even if he’d lived near the ironworks.
No matter Michel’s role in either killing, he was very protective of the Deveres. He might do anything for them.
I did doze off, and woke, sneezing. The settling dust from the bottles hung in the air.
At the same time I heard, blessedly, Brewster’s voice.
“Bloody hell, get that door open,” he was bellowing. “Toot sweet—you understand me? Allez.”
Another voice rumbled behind Brewster’s broken French, one smoother and more patient. I also heard growls from what must be the comte’s guards, and then something slammed onto the door’s latch.
“Carefully,” I yelled, my word slurring. “I can’t move out of the way.”
More bangs on the door latch, the thing solid. The Deveres’ ironsmiths did good work.
At last, wood splintered from the frame, and the door sagged open. I flinched from the lantern light that spilled into my dark prison, and flung up my hand to shield my eyes.
“Guv!” Brewster’s strong grip hauled me from the cold floor and into an equally cold, but now bright passageway.
Brewster heaved me up against a wall and started patting my chest and sides, while a burly man flashed an open lantern at me. Behind two more guards, another man hovered in the shadows, keeping to the circle of darkness beyond.
“Cease battering me, Brewster.” I tried to push away his hands. “I’m fine. Just cold. I need coffee and a hot bath.”
“There’s blood all over the floor out here,” Brewster said. “Yours?”
I started to laugh, and Brewster drew back, wrinkling his nose at my breath.
“It’s wine, my friend,” I managed. “He locked me in a forgotten wine cellar.”
“Drunk, are ye?” Brewster peered at me. “Who d’ye mean by he?”
“Michel,” I said, or tried to say. “Who is your friend?” I waved at the shadowy man behind him.
“Bring him,” the man instructed. His voice was a familiar one, which made me laugh again. “Clean him up and make sure he’s sensible enough to talk to the comtesse. She wishes him to vouch for me.”
My laughter increased. “Bonjour, sir. What brings the careful Mr. Denis all the way from London to the dusty cellars of a French chateau?”