Page 54 of A Ruse of Shadows
Fog swirled damply around Mrs. Watson’s face. The vapors smelled of rotten eggs and standing water that had started to scum over. She waved a hand in front of herself and whispered, “But surely Mr. Underwood couldn’t stay inthere.”
It was a dark, unfinished space with no ventilation. If Mr. Underwood was running for his life and had police dogs chasing after him, then perhaps the coal cellar might not be the worst place to hide until the coast cleared. But was he facing that kind of danger?
Miss Charlotte went to work on the padlock. But only a moment later, she straightened. “The lock is jammed. It looks as if a key was broken off inside.”
Mrs. Watson’s blood pulsed. “And that wasn’t the case last night?”
“No. Last night Lord Ingram picked this lock in less time than it would have taken me to eat a biscuit.”
“What do we do?”
“I suppose we could drop matches from the hatch on the pavement, but the hatch would not be easy to lift up.”
Coal cellars under the street usually had an opening on top for replenishing coal, but the hole was blocked by a heavy metal cover that fitted exactly flush to the opening and exactly flush to the street, which was highly challenging to remove if one didn’t already have access to the coal cellar underneath.
“Let’s find Lawson,” suggested Miss Charlotte.
Lawson had driven them to St. John’s Wood and parked severalstreets away. They found him exactly where they had left him. Alas, he didn’t have bolt cutters, but in the boot of the carriage he did have screwdrivers.
Back at the town house, Miss Charlotte set to work, loosening the hasp on the coal cellar door. It took some time, as the screws had rusted in place. But as soon as she had detached the hasp from the doorframe, the padlock became merely a decoration.
Mrs. Watson’s heart thundered. Miss Charlotte had investigated a number of unnatural deaths. Yet somehow, in all this time, Mrs. Watson had never seen the remains of a victim, let alone discovered one.
And she did not want to. Incoherently, she prayed that the jammed lock had resulted from a simple lock-picking accident.
Miss Charlotte pulled open the door and shone her pocket lantern into the stygian interior.
“Do you see anything?” Mrs. Watson barely got the words out.
Miss Charlotte did not answer but struck a match and tossed it inside.
Mrs. Watson stopped breathing.
There, against the far wall of the largely empty coal cellar, lay a roll of carpet.
Mrs. Claiborne? Surely not! Mrs. Watson tried to remind herself that she didn’t believe Mrs. Claiborne entirely, not even above half.
And yet…
Had the hapless girl been caught just when she was beginning to feel safe? But who wantedherdead?
Miss Charlotte stepped into the cellar, her footsteps gritty upon the few inches of coal remaining on the floor. Reflexively, Mrs. Watson followed, almost not feeling the chunks of fossil fuel poking into the soles of her shoes.
Maybe she was being far too morbid. Maybe there was no cadaver here at all, merely some loot that had been conveniently stashed away. Maybe—
The carpet had already unrolled somewhat in transit. Miss Charlotte pulled at the edge still caught under the weight of whatever it hid.
The edge did not budge. Miss Charlotte yanked again, again it did not budge.
Mrs. Watson bit the inside of her lip, set down the pocket lantern she held, and joined Miss Charlotte. They each took one side of the carpet edge and pulled.
The carpet edge gave and flapped back.
And Mrs. Watson was looking not at a lovely young woman, taken before her time, but a middle-aged man she’d never seen before, his eyes open, his lips slack, a look of sorrow and regret on his grey lifeless face.
In horror, she looked toward Miss Charlotte, who murmured, “I see we’ve found Mr. Underwood.”
Seventeen
