Page 96 of Secrets in the Dark
“Good timing,” Edmund said, looking at his phone. “The food is delicious and—”
“We should politely wait for Della,” François announced.
Seeing the stricken look on François’s face, Mason laughed. “I know Della and she will not mind in the least if you get started. You eat—and I’ll go get Special Agent Hamilton.”
“Now there’s a plan we can carry out,” Jeanne said lightly.
But Mason moved up the stairs quickly.
Della was not in the bedroom. And while he respected her talents and her abilities and knew that she was a damned good agent and an amazing shot, he felt an unease he couldn’t tamp down seeping into his system.
Something was wrong. Something was happening tonight.
The basement in the house was finished nicely. It had painted walls, a water heater, storage containers and shelving—and sofas, a TV screen and a Ping-Pong table.
Nice! Since the police department so often booked the property, it was natural that they’d supplied entertainment for whatever officers—for whatever reason—might be doing a stakeout or other reconnaissance in the area.
But it also had a closed “utility” area—just like the candy and clothing shops across the street and the pub.
She was startled when her phone rang but she answered it quickly, expecting it to be Mason. But to her surprise, her, “Hello,” was quickly answered by a woman saying, “It’s Dr. Lucretia Mayberry. Special Agent Hamilton?”
“Yes, yes, it’s me, thank you. Did you find something out?”
“I’m not sure. But I told you about the owner of the property in that area, how his own daughter thought that he’d gone crazy and was doing terrible things?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Well, there was never adigso to say, in the area. But a water heater was being replaced—and right in what they call the Prince Edward house—he supposedly visited there, you know, the poor prince had a horrible reputation. Anyway—”
“A house near the church?” Della asked.
“Yes, quite near. And right across from a candy shop now, I believe. Anyway, in 1935, when the owner was doing some repair work after a leak in the basement, he discovered that there was a tunnel leading from the house. Personally, I think it should have gone farther, but it solved, I believe, one of the mysteries that came before. The owner was horrified—bones were discovered in some of the brickwork. Of course, he quickly had them removed, and sealed the door and... I don’t know what was going on in 1935, but there wasn’t much of an investigation. I suppose they knew that the bones had been there over fifty years—there should have been an anthropologist called in—the killer was dead, and they chalked it up to Mr. Nathaniel Bradenton, but, of course, he was dead, his family had sold all their property and immigrated to the United States, so...”
“But if there was a tunnel under the house, it led somewhere, right?”
“Quite possibly. There are areas where we do find historic treasures, graveyards, medieval settlements and Roman settlements, often one on top of another. From Roman to medieval times, there might have been anything. Layers of history. I’m assuming that your coworkers can contact the high-ranking British powers that be and get permission to explore further. We have technical equipment that can help make sure we don’t destroy property, but most people would be eager to find something historical and... Well, this may help you find a hideout and give something to posterity! I would be more helpful, but I think that most people will listen to someone in law enforcement rather than go on a hunch by an anthropologist.”
“Thank you, Lucretia,” she said. “Thank you so much. If you learn anything else, please tell me, and I promise, we’ll keep you apprised of everything that’s going on.”
“Terrific!”
They ended the call and Della paused, looking around the basement again. London was old. Not with the depth of years as Africa or the Middle East, but...
The present often lived over the ashes of the past.
And while she couldn’t be sure, their current residence could very well be what was once referred to as the “Prince Edward” house.
She walked to the back where the brickwork appeared to be comparatively new. She could imagine the owner in 1935, discovering that his basement led to a burial place. So, yes, he’d had that area bricked in—he wouldn’t want to continue thinking about the bones that had greeted his workmen. But still...
Maybe she had watched too many detective movies as a kid. The kind where you twisted a bust of William Shakespeare and a fireplace revolved to allow entrance into a secret room.
And maybe it was logic.
She didn’t believe that the killer had been in the house; there were six of them living here, always with someone on guard. There were cameras and alarms. No, the killer hadn’t been here, but...
If there was a tunnel behind the brick, it could lead the way to the place where Jesse Miller had been hiding, slipping underground and appearing to disappear into thin air.
The question was...
