CHAPTER X - "A BOTTLE FROM THE WINE CELLAR"

A modern day Horror, Mystery, Adventure Shot Story.

A Bottle from the Wine Cellar

`I hate the dark. Hate it.'
 
Pammie trembled but it wasn't clear whether the cool damp air or fear
caused it.
 
`Is not dark. Still there is candle.'
 
For once, Edward's manner of speech, slightly accented, didn't elicit
her usual correction.
 
`Not for much longer. And I hate creepy crawlies. And I hate being
trapped in confined places. But most of all I hate that... that thing
in the chest.' She glanced at the ironbound chest in the centre of the
floor, barely visible at the edge of the candle's fitful glow.
 
`Why did you bring me down here?'
 
`You blame me?'
 
`It was your idea.'
 
In the flickering light, her face was taut with accusation, her body
stiff with a terror that one wrong word might turn to uncontrolled
panic. Edward knew he mustn't antagonise her or let her know how scared
he felt.
 
`The old...bat she teach lesson, nothing more. She let us go soon. Then
we have revenge.'
 
`You don't know Aunt Martha. Anyway, if you hadn't pocketed those stupid
porcelain eggs we wouldn't...'
 
`The eggs...'
 
`What? What about them?'
 
He couldn't tell her he'd left each of the solid pot eggs strategically
placed on the stairways, so the old crone might step on one and fall
to her death. It had been a way of hastening her aunt's death so Pammie
could come into her inheritance sooner. The sooner she was rich, the
sooner he'd be free of debt and threat.
 
`What, Roane? What did you do with the eggs?'
 
Her use of his real name, a name he'd not used since the terrorist
bombings in the city, warned him how close she was to nervous
collapse. Her eyes were wide, the mouth he knew so well, as a sensual
organ of delight, was now a rictus of tension. He couldn't let her
know. Not now, not whilst they were locked in the Wine Cellar and the only
one who knew, the only one who could let them out, was her Aunt Martha.
 
`Nothing. I put eggs back. Only I think they why she trick us here. To
take them was stupid. When she see I put them back, she let us out.'
 
His deception worked. In her panic she'd lost her usual ability to see
through his lies, need had rendered her persuadable. She relaxed a little
and moved closer, shuffling on the damp earth floor until she sat beside
him and could lean against him. He put one arm about her bare shoulders,
his other hand on the skin of her raised thigh.
 
`No wonder you shiver. Why you dress this way before we go to house?'
 
`I told you.'
 
* * *
 
`Stop here.'
 
He pulled into the rest stop and watched her stretch, raising soft arms
above her head. The seat groaned lightly at the strain she put on it
and Edward tried to hide his concern. The Merc was Edward's life. He
was in debt and unemployed since they'd made him redundant during the
downsizing but they weren't having his car. The car had first impressed
Pammie and persuaded her to climb in beside him all those weeks ago. He
watched her move and hoped her rounded form would do no harm.
 
Stopping the car meant that air no longer washed through the open windows
but strong sun continued to blaze through the tinted windscreen. Edward
felt the constriction of his dark suit, monogrammed white shirt and
cobalt blue silk tie. The black patent shoes felt tight around his
feet. His work demanded smartness and he found the habit difficult to
shed in favour of lighter cover more appropriate to the back end of
summer. Pammie was, as usual, clad more seasonally. Her strappy top bared
shoulders and arms and exposed more of her ample breasts than Edward
wanted in public. The fine scarlet cheesecloth was elasticated into her
waist and fell in soft pleats to mid thigh. Beneath it, she wore white
cotton pedal pushers and red leather sandals. A dozen pounds lighter,
Edward thought, and she'd be a real stunner.
 
She heaved her hips up off the seat and pulled down the pedal pushers,
tossing them in the back of the car, making her barely decent.
 
`You not going to your Great Aunt Martha's home like that?'
 
`Of course. The old fart spent most of my life telling me I was wicked
and making me dress like a nerd. I want her to believe all her beatings
and humiliations had the opposite effect of what she wanted. I want her
to think she wasted all that effort and drove me into being a tramp.'
 
`You not tramp, Pammie. You...'
 
`But she doesn't know that. It'll hurt her. She'll be livid and distressed
and I want her to suffer. She made me suffer enough when I lived with
her.'
 
`She not... how do you say it? Uninherit you...?
 
`Disinherit. No. I'm all she has. Inheritance is all blood and I'm the
only blood she's got now Mom's... gone.'
 
`Even so. Too much skin show.'
 
`You're serious?'
 
He nodded.
 
`My skin, Roane.'
 
Her use of his real name was warning enough and he resisted the urge
to argue with her about exposure he considered suitable only for
private. They drove the half mile to the gates in silence. She stopped
him there so he could see what she'd be worth when her great aunt died.
 
`You never said her home was so big... a... a mansion.'
 
She grinned at his surprise.
 
`She live here alone?'
 
Pammie nodded. `Has done for years. Ever since old Sanders died in the
middle of cutting the front lawns. Never had another soul in the place
since. What sort of state it's in now, who knows? I mean, look at the
grounds. Like something out of a horror movie. You can just
imagine the bats diving from the ivy after sunset.'
 
`What is tower thing at back?'
 
`Roger's Wine Cellar. The man who built the house had them put it up exactly
as it is. It's supposed to look like a ruin but it's actually got a
thick stone roof below the broken parapet and the walls are over four
feet thick, they say. Rumour is, he built it as a treasure store. Nobody
knows how to get into it, though and Aunt Martha says it's a load of
nonsense anyway.'
 
Edward looked at the two buildings, the manor house with enough rooms
to house the population of his father's home village in Colombia and the
frivolous tower that must have cost a small fortune to build. He'd been
right to stick with Pammie, in spite of her taunts at his lack of any
beliefs, her excesses, her appetites, her demands for attention. Once
they were married, he'd make her diet, teach her to dress and act like
a proper wife. Oh, she could still be free in his bedroom. For the rest
she'd behave like a lady.
 
`Come on. Let's see how close to death's door she's grown. She's got to
be ninety if she's a day.'
 
He steered through open gates and wound down the drive on gravel
punctuated by thistles, dandelions and chickweed. The vegetation softened
the sound of crushed stone beneath the wide wheels. He stopped the car
but, at Pammie's insistence, not the engine.
 
`Not here. Take it round the back and stick it in the coach house. I
don't want anyone to know she's got visitors. They're a nosey bunch in
the village down the road but they usually leave her alone. They'll only
come poking their noses in if they think someone's trying to cheat her.'
 
He drove past the front of the house, counting the windows and stopping
at thirty four. The coach house door was ajar and Pammie opened it, making
it squeal on unused hinges. Inside was space for four cars amongst the
spider webs and abandoned garden tools. Pammie kicked a fallen rake to
the side and he parked in the centre of the space. He helped her close
the doors again, wincing at the protesting hinges.
 
They walked along the rear of the house and Edward noted the elegant
design; the high windows and decorative brickwork of russet and dark blue,
the clinging ivy gone wild and obscuring some of the glass.
 
Pammie took them to a small door at the end of the west wing. The path
from here was clear of weeds and there were signs of regular traffic
from door to garden. To Edward's surprise, the door was unlocked and
opened without noise. Inside, it was dim and silent but for the distant
ticking of ponderous clocks.
 
`Aunt Martha?'
 
Pammie's call fell soft on the air, absorbed by dust and curtains and
carpets in corridors that ran into dark obscurity. There was no reply.
 
She took his hand and led him along a passageway lined with dark portraits
that glared disapproval at them in the gloom. They found Aunt Martha in
the smaller library, her frail hands clasping an open volume of tales by
Edgar Allan Poe. The old lady looked up, unconcerned, as Pammie entered
with Edward hovering uncertainly behind her.
 
`Bend or sit down in that and you'll show the world everything you've got,
my girl.'
 
Pammie made a deep bow, illustrating the old lady's observation, and put
her hand to her mouth in mock horror as she stood up straight again.
 
`Well, I never, Aunt Martha. Do you suppose Edward saw what colour
panties I've got on? Assuming I'm wearing any, that is.'
 
`I suppose you think your apparel constitutes some sort of rebellion,
girl?'
 
`Rebellion? I look and feel sexy. I dress like this for me.'
 
`Tramp! You're not walking around my home in that...thing.'
 
`Take it off, shall I?'
 
`To think I brought you up as a lady. I was too gentle with you, girl.'
 
`Do you know, Edward, this old witch used to take me into the garden so
the gardener could beat me? I stopped her when I was fourteen. Too big
for her to bully by then. Anyway, Sanders had other ideas about what he
might do to me when I was bent over for him.'
 
`Wicked girl! How dare you be disrespectful of the dead?'
 
`See, Edward, told you, didn't I?'
 
Aunt Martha fumed silently. She wanted to close the subject of dress and
associated topics, fearing they might develop into strands of conversation
she'd rather not follow.
 
She stared at Edward. `You a Latino?'
 
Edward, unprepared for the direct question, took his time forming
a reply.
 
`Well?'
 
`I not like labels. I more interested in other things.'
 
`A spanard, then. That why you took up with this trollop? You believe
she'll be rich when I'm dead?'
 
`Aunt Martha! You've years ahead of you. Edward and I are simply good
friends, nothing more.'
 
`Good friends don't engage in... Or they didn't in my day.'
 
It was on the tip of Pammie's tongue to comment that her day was well
and truly over but she resisted the temptation. It was hardly in their
interests to warn her, after all.
 
`Make the tea, then, girl. I hope at least you haven't forgotten your
manners.'
 
Pammie made a courtesy, lifting the hem of the dress in a travesty of
condescension before she turned and left for the kitchen.
 
Aunt Martha pursed tight lips and turned to Edward. `What's your
real name?'
 
He considered telling her to mind her own business, telling her Edward
was his real name, telling her to shut her heathen mouth.
 
`I Roane Butos. And I Pammie's partner seven months.'
 
`Partner? She going to marry you?'
 
`I hope so.'
 
Aunt Martha snorted. `So, where are you from with your stilted English
and dark skin?'
 
`My father Colombia. Mother half of Algeria, half of English. I born
in France and school in Switzerland. I speak Spanish,French, German,
Arabic as well as English I learn since I come here live. I am organic
chemist. But they redundant me when bombs kill in city. They think
I terrorist.'
 
`So you took Edward as a way of escaping prejudice. I loath racists. But
I like to know the truth. Is it Pammie's fleshy body; your lot like your
women well upholstered, don't they? Or is it her wealth that attracts
you? You're a good-looking young man. Could have your pick of women.'
 
`Her body attract; she sexy even if a bit fat, when I give her lift in
rain in winter. I think she office worker then. Only when we come your
home now I see your richness.'
 
`A neatly coined lie but something near the truth. Pammie's my sole heir
and, in spite of her outrageous behaviour and dress sense, will inherit
all of this when I die. Which, I might add, is likely to be sooner rather
than later. You'll have to be patient for only a little while.'
 
`You seem healthy. How old you?'
 
`Only a continental man would ask such a question. English gentlemen are
too discrete or too cowardly. I'll be eighty nine in three days time. My
health's fine but I grow tired of existence alone and birthdays have
long since ceased to be a pleasure. Pammie hasn't visited me for three
years so I assume she's in need of funds. No doubt you also intend to
rob me of some items to pay for excesses like that extravagant car until
I'm dead and out of your way.'
 
`Is thought. But maybe you share your richness while you still live.'
 
`For you to waste on fancy cars, drink and women?'
 
`Only Pammie I love.'
 
`Love? I doubt that.'
 
Pammie returned, a silver tray spread with silver tea set and fine bone
china plates with thinly sliced cucumber sandwiches.
 
`Who does your shopping, Aunty?'
 
`You've come on the best day. Robert from the village brings everything
I need, once a week, and leaves it in the kitchen. Milk and bread from
the milkman, every other day. They stock the fridge. The other villagers
leave me alone. Robert brought my groceries this morning. I grow my own
vegetables and fruit. I don't need Sanders' help for that. Nice to know
you care, though.'
 
`You need to clear your fridge out more often. There were seven bottles in
there. I've chucked the old stuff down the sink. And the old bread. I've
chucked that out the back for the birds.'
 
`Too much trouble. The milkman does it for me now and again. And you
can clear that bread off the lawns. I don't want rats encouraged.'
 
`Lawns? It's a jungle out there. God knows how you...'
 
`Don't you take the name of the Lord in vain, young lady. I'm not too
old to thrash that wicked hide, you know.'
 
`Oh, I think you'll find you're way too old to even think about it. Have
a cucumber sandwich, Edward. Traditional English fare for high tea.'
 
She poured tea, without asking about sugar or milk, knowing their
preferences, and handed out the sandwiches with small plates. In
semi-civilised silence, they ate and drank. Edward took in the room.
 
All four walls were lined with books of every size. A quick survey
revealed titles from the classics to early twentieth century literature,
books from gardening to war, atlases, reference books and bibles. The
furniture was antique; even his inexperienced eye could detect the
quality. Above the wide fireplace, a gilded mirror reflected sunlight
from the deep window and an Ormolu clock ticked doggedly. Either side
of the clock heroic bronzes posed in frozen moments of masculine vanity.
 
`Are you going to marry the mongrel?'
 
`He hasn't asked me.'
 
`That isn't what I asked.'
 
`I might. He's good... company and I can stand looking at him.'
 
`His eyes are too close together.'
 
`A tad. But you should see the rest of him, Aunty.'
 
`You won't shock me so easily, girl. I suppose you came for money?'
 
`Thought I might relieve you of one or two small items of value. Just
to keep me going till you snuff it.'
 
`Do use the right word.  I hate euphemisms. When I die, you'll have the
lot, as you know. In the meantime, you'll manage on what I choose to give
you, coupled with what you earn through your own endeavours. Steal from
me and you'll regret it. There are ways I can control you even after
my death, girl. Don't forget I can rewrite my will in such a way that
you'll never have direct access to anything. I could have it held in
trust for any children you might have. So think on.'
 
`You're an evil old witch, Aunty Martha.'
 
`Doesn't say much, does he, your fancy foreigner?'
 
`What bothers you? The colour of his skin, his accent or his antecedents?'
 
`I'd have preferred an English gentleman, that's all. Heathen blood
and foreign ways don't sit well with our tradition.' She turned to
Edward. `Hunt?'
 
He was puzzled for a moment until he caught Pammie's comic mime of riding.
 
`Oh. No. I ride. But no hunt. Cannot eat fox. Is bad chase for sport.'
 
Aunt Martha's glance was flavoured with distaste. The ensuing silence
would've been awkward under normal social circumstances but no one present
was easily embarrassed. The clink of china on china punctuated the quiet
for a time until Aunt Martha brought things to a head.
 
`Come, then. Let me show you the dowry your intended bride brings
with her.'
 
`My mother's father, he want dowry. My father he say no. Me, I not want
money for wife.'
 
She rose slowly and soundlessly from her high-backed armchair and left
the room, expecting them to follow.
 
`The portraits are probably of little value, being entirely family
members and the work of little-known artists. The frames are probably
worth more than the canvas.'
 
As she led them up the first flight of stairs, she pointed out odd pieces,
giving details of their history, names of makers, periods of fashion that
produced them. Edward noticed the similarity of a small secretaire to
one he'd seen in an antique shop in town; the price tag had been greater
than his annual salary.
 
The top floor was unused now. Dust, cobwebs and the musty smell of ages
shadowed the corridors. Doors opened reluctantly, hinges squealing protest
after such long neglect. There was a strange absence of mildew and mould,
however, as if the very house cared for its contents now the owner was
incapable of housekeeping.
 
A garish Victorian bowl held an odd collection of wax fruit, gilded wooden
apples and, incongruously, half a dozen painted porcelain eggs. The
miniatures of classical scenes painted on the curved surfaces caught
Edward's eye.
 
`Is nice.' He picked one up, studied it and weighed it, heavy and solid,
in his palm.
 
Aunt Martha glanced up into his eyes and saw the lust before she adjusted
her gaze to one of rapt attention at the objects of his desire. `I
understand they're some early work from Delft. Not even recorded
or catalogued, so I've no idea what they're worth. I came across a
reference to them in one of the books in the library. Oh, and there's
an ancient invoice somewhere recording their sale. Mentions the potter's
name. Something unpronounceable.'
 
They were, in fact, indifferent work from an English pottery that had
declined due to the poverty of its vision. But Aunt Martha thought her
tale had provided the test she needed and she smiled secretly as the
young man pocketed the eggs, he hoped surreptitiously.
 
The tour of the top floor ended with the gallery, which held an eclectic
collection of work by unknown English artists, French minor masters
and a couple of originals by names so famous even the uneducated would
recognise them. As they left, Aunt Martha decided to reveal the truth.
 
`Those eggs you pocketed are worthless, you know. Poor copies, from
Staffordshire. Work by a potter who never found recognition because his
execution was so dreadful. Study them in a better light and you'll see
why they're kept up there in the dark.'
 
`I put back after we pass window and see poor work. I not mean keep. I
wish only see.'
 
`Of course.'
 
He excused himself, declaring a desire to study one of the old masters
in greater detail. They left him and returned to the ground floor. He
placed eggs on both stairways in such a way that the old lady might step
on one in the dim light and fall to her death. The others he kept back
for similar use at strategic places on the ground floor; places where
she might fall with her head in contact with hard sharp objects that
would split the fragile skull with ease.
 
He found his paramour and her erstwhile torturer back in the library,
discussing the Wine Cellar.
 
`...apparently, not long after Roger put the ugly monstrosity up. Then,
a while ago, I found some old documents that said he built it as a sort
of treasury and that there was a chest full of treasure in the bottom
of the tower.'
 
`Really?'
 
`Yes.'
 
`Do you believe it?'
 
`I know it. At least, I know there's a chest. I've seen it. But the
steps down to it are far too difficult for me. Besides, I've no need of
extra money.'
 
`Maybe Pammie and I look? See if it true?'
 
Martha looked at him as if she were considering his idea seriously. Pammie
held her breath. A crafty look crossed Martha's face. `No. I don't
think so.'
 
`OK.' Pammie shrugged and passed a covert signal to Edward before she
began to tidy up the tea things. `By the way, whatever
happened to Uncle Peter? I was looking at the family portrait and
I realised I never actually met the man. But he must've been about
your age.'
 
`Peter? Four years older than me. And he was a bad lot. A bad, bad
man. Disappeared, you know. Now, he would've happily killed me for
the treasure.'
 
When Aunt Martha turned her scrutiny back to Edward he merely raised
his eyebrows in what he hoped would pass for indifference. They must,
after all, not appear too eager. She seemed to make up her mind.
 
`Oh, why not? I'll never get round to it. And if there is anything down
there, which I doubt, you might as well have it now, I suppose, as leave
it down there until I die.'
 
Pammie left with the tray, turning over her shoulder as she was halfway
through the door. `Don't bother now, Aunty. We're staying the night. You
can show us in the morning, if you like.'
 
`We not bother old lady tonight.'
 
`Cheeky Latino! I'll take you down there now or not at all.'
 
Pammie carried the tray to the kitchen and returned to find her aunt ready
to lead them to the treasure trove. They followed her through corridors
leading to steps down to the wine cellars. It was clear she still made
visits here as the stone steps bore a path through the dust. Edward left
his final porcelain egg on the second step down before descending. As
with the rest, he polished away his fingerprints on his handkerchief
first. The steps were guarded on one side only by a worn rope banister;
a perfect site for the unfortunate fall of an old lady.
 
She led them between rows of wine racks showing plunder by an irregular
and casual drinker. Some sections were almost stripped whilst others
remained virtually untouched, the dust of decades lying undisturbed on
the prone bottles. Webs festooned the ceiling and corners. The whole
place was musty and the yellowed bulbs gave barely enough light to avoid
tripping on occasional broken bottles.
 
They wandered single file through the first arched cellar and into
another. At the far end, in the gloom, a small rack of wine huddled
strangely against the wall, at right angles to the other racks. The
bottles appeared to be of the untouched variety.
 
Martha moved to a shelf at the left of the rack and picked up a couple
of candles in holders. She held them for Edward to light.
 
`I no smoke.'
 
She nodded. Using the box of matches from her pocket, she lit both candles,
and gave the unused one to Edward to hold, passing the half-used one
to Pammie for the moment.
 
`You need to watch how this is done. I discovered it almost by accident.'
 
She reached with her bony hand for the first bottle on the third row
down and counted from there, aloud, to the seventh bottle. Grasping
the side bar of the rack, she shoved it away from her, grunting with
effort. The whole section of wood down to the floor moved as a lever. It
was difficult to see how she could have discovered such a deliberate
action by accident. But the result took away any concern on that score,
as the wine rack grated over the floor to the right and revealed a small
oak door.
 
`It was locked when I first came down here and it took me over a year
to find the key. I leave it in the lock now. Though, why, I don't know,
since I never intended to return, once I'd discovered how difficult it
is to reach the chest. Shall we?'
 
She turned the key with difficulty and the lock ground open. She
nudged the door open with her foot. It moved on old hinges not oiled
for years. The squeal was enough to make Pammie cover her ears, almost
setting fire to her hair with the candle.
 
Martha retrieved it from her and led the party into the darkness of a
low narrow passage hacked through the bedrock. Black smudges of slime
and fungus the colour of dead flesh made hideous patches on the damp dark
walls. Drips of moisture fell soft onto the dusted stone of the floor. It
was clear to anyone whose thoughts were not on potential riches that no
one had passed this way for decades.
 
There was a dark scent of earth overlain with something unpleasant that
neither Pammie nor Edward could identify, though Martha trembled with a
memory she would rather not revisit. For a moment, she considered halting
the excursion. But the chill made Pammie shiver in her brief outfit and
the old lady's puritan outrage returned to stiffen her resolve.
 
The passage sloped gently and unevenly down. No air moved within it that
was not stirred by the party padding through the dank gloom.
 
At the end of the tunnel, they came to a flight of rough stone steps
rising into unfathomable blackness. The candle flames seemed impotent
against that ever-present night. Pammie was already beginning to have
her doubts about venturing further into what resembled the subterranean
tombs of horror stories.
 
Martha rested her back against the passage wall where it widened to
allow a small vestibule as entry to the steps. Her voice grew thick with
a mix of apprehension and suppressed glee as she spoke to them.
 
`This is far as I go. There's another door at the top of the steps. It's
unlocked. Through the door, which lies high within the walls of the
tower, there's a second flight of steps leading back down to the bottom
of the tower. You'll find the chest fastened to the floor in there. Be
careful. The steps inside are no more than narrow slabs of stone sticking
out into the tower and there's no rail. If you fall from the top, you'll
likely break your neck. Be very careful; the door opens out directly
into the tower, there's no landing, simply a drop into darkness if you
miss the first step.'
 
She gestured Pammie up the steps but her great niece had other ideas.
 
`You first, Edward.'
 
They made way for him to pass and he began to mount the steps, his
candle throwing his shadow into wild cavorting contortions on the wet
walls. Pammie followed him closely.
 
`I can see your bottom, girl!'
 
Pammie stopped and turned to stare at her aunt. `Never heard of a thong,
I suppose? Anyway, you should be used to that sight, Aunty. Made me bare
my bum for the beatings often enough. Why was that? Wasn't it enough I
had to suffer the pain without that added humiliation?'
 
`I merely followed the discipline methods of the convent where I was
educated. It worked on me; I hoped and expected it to do the same
for you.'
 
`You were beaten by nuns. It was a male gardener who beat me.'
 
`You were a child! He took no gratification from your state. Like the
priests who sometimes administered the beating in place of the nuns.'
 
`I was a developing woman and he took plenty of gratification from my
state alright, he took full advantage of my youth and vulnerability I
can tell you. Perhaps the priests did the same in the convent?'
 
`Wicked girl! I've a good mind to tell you to come straight back down
here without ...'
 
`Oh, get real, Aunty. We're hardly going to let you stop us now. Up you
go, Edward.'
 
The pair climbed into darkness and the old woman waited below,
listening. She watched the flickering shadows until they faded to
blackness and knew they'd reached the door at the top of the stairs. The
old bones of her vengeful hand closed on the key in her pocket. She'd
been unsure whether she should go through with her plan. But Pammie's
dreadful accusations changed all that. It would serve her right to
suffer a little, give her time to think about the wicked things she'd
said. Triumph twitched Martha's lips, cut a quick gleam in her eyes.
 
In the candle's wavering flame, Edward examined Pammie as she joined
him at the top of the stairs.
 
`Did gardener man really... do it to you?'
 
`Sanders was a gentleman. The thought never crossed his mind. But she
doesn't know that and if it makes her feel bad to suspect it then that's
all to the good. Now, let's get on with the job in hand before I freeze
to death in here.'
 
At the top of the stairs, Edward pushed the old door of plain oak
planks open, on rusted hinges. Juddering, it revealed darkness that was
emphasised by the intrusion of narrow beams of dim daylight filtering
through small fissures in the roof above. As soon as the moving air
from the opened door touched each slanting column of faint light, dust
motes gathered and danced there, rejoicing in mobility after decades
of stillness.
 
`God, it's creepy. I hate the dark, Edward. Let's get out of here.'
 
`I not like it, also. We go down quick. See what in chest first, yes?'
 
They looked down and saw that the light from the candle travelled only
to the first half dozen steps. These were flat slabs of stone mortared
into the wall in a steep spiral descending into darkness. There was no
outer guardrail and nothing to hold onto on the wall. Narrow and roughly
cut, the steps presented a challenge to all but the most determined and
Pammie could fully understand why her aunt had ended her sortie at this
point. The lure of riches, however, urged Pammie on in Edward's wake.
 
They descended slowly, the candle flame flickering with each step taken
and the pool of light slowly dropping with them until they could make
out the curved barrel top of a large metal-shod wooden chest in what
appeared to be the dead centre of the floor beneath them. The sight
quickened their hearts as much as their steps. They continued down,
the cool damp air and sinister smell of less concern than their hunger
for whatever treasures the chest might hold.
 
At last, they were on the floor of the tower and could approach the
coffer. Above, the flicker of another candle appeared in the blackness.
Both looked up.
 
`Changed your mind, Aunty?
 
`Oh, I couldn't miss this.' The frail voice called down with strange
fervour.
 
At the entrance above, Aunt Martha stood on the edge, within her pool
of light, and on the floor below, Edward and Pammie stood close to the
chest in their small circle of illumination. Between, darkness lay thick
and heavy with curious threat for the pair on the ground. Whether it
was the odd change in the old woman or some other cause they couldn't
tell but they felt oppressed and uneasy.
 
Edward moved close to the chest and passed the candle to Pammie so she
could light his work of undoing the catches and opening the ancient trunk.
 
`Let us do it.'
 
The metal fastenings were rusted and stiff and Edward struggled to
free them until he spotted a crow bar on the ground and used it to open
them, one by one. It occurred to neither of them how out of place was
this modern tool, so keen were they to open the chest. When he'd freed
all four, he unbuckled the two thick leather straps, brittle and hard
with years of damp, and pulled the belts through, snapping one in his
eagerness. The time had come to lift the lid.
 
Pammie stood close, all apprehension lost in her eagerness to discover
what this well-secured chest contained. It had remained in the tower
unmoved, unopened, almost forgotten since the day her ancestor had placed
it there over two centuries previously. To go to this trouble and take
this effort to keep the contents safe, it must hold something of real
value. A fortune, perhaps.
 
Edward, enjoying the drama of the moment, placed his fingertips under
the edge of the curved lid and tested it for weight and freedom of
movement. It gave more easily than he expected and he let the lid lift a
fraction before he turned his gaze on Pammie, his eyes bright with hunger
in the candle's glow.
 
`Open it, then'
 
He smiled; soon their money worries would be over. They would marry and
pay off their debts and live in relative comfort until the old woman's
death brought them the wealth they both desired.
 
`Open it!'
 
He laughed at her eagerness, savouring the moment, confident such security
promised a prize worth waiting for. `We share treasure?'
 
Pammie shivered involuntarily, her cover suddenly reminding her how flimsy
it was for this deep dark damp tower. `Yes. Of course. Open it!'
 
Edward lifted the lid. He threw it back dramatically, so that it
smashed against the rear of the chest and jarred the hinges. The crash
was deafening after the silence of the tower. The candle flame danced
in the disturbed air, revealing the contents.
 
In the silence of shock that followed, a harsh laugh drifted to them
from above.
 
`Enjoy your find.'
 
Neither of them noticed Aunt Martha's injunction. Their eyes and minds
were fixed on the contents of the chest and, no matter that they both
wished otherwise, they could not tear away their gaze from the horror
there.
 
The body had been folded over to make it fit the space. It was bent
and warped from its unnatural confinement. One hand was partly raised,
pleading it seemed, as if the victim had been trying to claw his or her
way out of the prison. The clothes had mostly disintegrated, the bones
showing through desiccated flesh, hair straggling on the skull. The evil
smell came from the chest and, now it was open and disturbed, increased
in strength until the two watchers gagged.
 
Pammie clutched at Edward and dropped the candle. He found her flesh
against his and turned away at last from the horror as the flame guttered
and died, leaving them in almost total darkness.
 
From above came the sound of an involuntary gasp. `You'll need
these.' Aunt Martha dropped the box of matches down to them.
 
Both were too frozen with horror to respond. The candle flame above
disappeared, the door juddered closed. A key turned in the lock, taking
their attention away from the corpse for a moment.
 
Too stunned to be coherent, they stood clutching each other in silence
and darkness for uncounted time. Pammie desperately wanted to scream
but her throat was dry with terror and all that emerged was a husk of
fear. Edward held her close, his own fear held at bay by her need of
his strength. They both understood their situation together and looked
up into the darkness where only slim shafts of fading daylight relieved
the utter blackness.
 
In the chest, the corpse shifted slightly, bones and flesh scraping
against the wood. Edward tried to suppress his groan of horror. Pammie
screamed.
 
Martha heard the shriek even at the foot of the steps. Her expression
changed from triumph to troubled consternation. Undecided, she stood and
watched her own shadow play on the wall as the flame wavered under the
soft pressure of her breath. At length, she moved and walked stiffly
through the tunnel to the cellar entrance. For a moment, she pondered
whether she should replace the concealing wine rack. But common sense
told her now that their discovery of the body must sentence them to
eternal incarceration. She hadn't thought it through. Hadn't really
considered the consequences of her actions. Now she realised she'd put
herself into an impossible position.
 
If she let them out, they'd tell the police and then there would be an
enquiry and all the old questions about the disappearance of her cousin
would return. It wouldn't be long before they realised that she'd put
him in the chest and left him there to die.
 
That she'd done so in self-defence following his attempt to strip and rape
her down there, that he'd torn her clothes, threatened to lock her into
the tower if she refused him, that she'd been a teenager at the time;
all this would count for nothing. They'd be as horrified at the thought
that she'd left him locked in the chest to die as she was herself. She
hadn't known that he was still alive. The blow to his head with the crow
bar they'd taken down to open the chest, in search of treasure, had seemed
to kill him. But she'd gazed down on the pair as they opened the chest,
knowing they'd find the body and knowing it would be a lesson to them, a
punishment for their greed. When she saw that raised hand clawing upward
in hopeless terror, she'd realised that he'd been alive after all and,
at the same time, she'd begun to realise she could never release the
two who'd come to rob her.
 
She closed the door and allowed the hidden mechanism to drag the wine rack
back across the entrance, hiding it. Wandering slowly through the cellar,
she picked a bottle from a rack at random. Took it up with her so she
might numb the sense of guilt and horror she felt at what had happened,
both then and now.
 
Enclosed in guilt and grief, she nevertheless noticed the porcelain egg
Edward had left at the top of the cellar steps. Laughing grimly at this
crude attempt on her life, she left it there to collect on her next visit,
her hands full for the moment.
 
In the library, she opened the bottle, poured the deep red liquid into
a large crystal glass, and drained it at once. The second glass she took
more slowly. The bottle was empty before she fell asleep in her chair.
 
* * *
 
Pammie screamed five times before Edward could persuade her to stop. His
final shout of pleading continued to echo around the tower as the scream
died. They stood together beside the chest and trembled.
 
`It moved.'
 
`Yes. But is dead. It cannot hurt us.'
 
`What about ghosts and...?'
 
`Madness that way, Pammie. Is corpse. Long dead.'
 
`It moved. I heard it.'
 
`Yes.'
 
`Is it still in the chest?'
 
`Yes. Of course.'
 
`How do you know? It might be anywhere in here by now.'
 
`Is dead, Pammie. It cannot move.'
 
`It did move.'
 
`Yes.'
 
`Light the candle.'
 
`What with?'
 
`She threw something down. Maybe it was the matches.'
 
`I look. Stay here.'
 
`No! We'll look together.'
 
`We start from chest. Work outward. You do that?'
 
`Don't let me go. Keep hold of my hand.'
 
`Need both hands to look on floor.'
 
`Don't let go of me!'
 
They crouched and, hand in hand, began to circle the chest. The stench
of crated death was deep in their nostrils. The presence of the corpse,
reaching, searching vainly for escape, close and ever-present. The bony,
clawed fingers hunting the air.
 
Round and round they circled, sweeping the ground with their fingertips,
falling against each other as they tried to balance, until they tumbled
forward onto the damp earth floor. Something crawled over Pammie's foot
and she screamed. Her hand flew to the place to beat it away and she
lost contact with Edward.
 
`Stand and stay still. I search.'
 
`Something touched me.'
 
`Is insect. Beetle, spider.'
 
`I hate creepy crawlies.' Her breath was rapid, close to panic. Another
incident might bring her to hysterics.
 
Edward cursed, full of pain.
 
`Roane! What's happened?'
 
A stream of foreign expletives flowed from him.
 
`Roane?'
 
He moaned, in pain.
 
`Roane!'
 
`I bang my... leg on step. Too close to wall in dark.'
 
Her breath came fast, shallow. She was alone and near the chest with
that ...that hideous thing that had moved, that she had heard move,
that he had heard move. Roane was by the steps. Was he going to try to
leave her here, escape and leave her?
 
`Don't go, Edward.'
 
`I go nowhere. I look for matches. I no go nowhere. She has locked us in.'
 
`Why haven't you found those matches yet?'
 
`I looking.'
 
Pammie could stand the inactivity no longer and moved forward, hands
outstretched blindly as she made toward the direction of his voice. Her
eyes, growing accustomed to the dim light from outside, discovered a
shadow deeper than the general blackness as it moved on the edge of
her vision.
 
`Get away!'
 
`What?'
 
`It's moving. I saw it move!'
 
`Nothing move. Stay still. I look for matches.'
 
The shadow, lost for a moment in stillness, moved again and she gasped,
trying to hold back the scream she felt build within her, aware she
was on the edge of a decline into hysteria that might send her mad with
terror. She must hold on.
 
`Keep away from me.'
 
The futility of her warning made her laugh with bitterness at the
hopelessness of their situation. She was lost in the worst of horror
movies and whatever her rational self kept telling her, she knew, without
doubt, that the corpse had left the chest and was stalking her. It was
bent on revenge, fixed on violence, and would clamp its bony hands around
her throat and squeeze out her life because someone had locked it alive
in that chest. And she was the only one it could take out its insane,
mad vengeance on.
 
`Leave me alone.'
 
`Pammie, nothing live here. Just you and me. We alone. That... that other,
he dead. It not move. It not do you harm. Keep calm.'
 
The sound of something scraping preceded his last injunction and he
was silent for a moment. Pammie sought the shifting shadow and saw it
now crouched, low, huddled as if preparing to spring, like some craven
beast. It would leap at her and tear out her heart. It wanted nothing
more than her death as payment for its own.
 
A sudden flash brought flickering light and Edward's face lit up with an
eerie glow from below as he struck a match. She saw that the shadow was
he. The corpse remained in the chest. The candle lay on its side, still
within the holder, a hand's-breadth from the side of the chest. Edward
saw it at the same time as Pammie. He walked toward it and darkness
returned as the flame caught the skin of his finger and he dropped it
with a soft curse.
 
They stood in the silent dark until he struck another and continued
across the floor to the candle, this time reaching it in time to light
it from the burning stick. He studied the corpse and reassured himself
it was inert, unmoving now.
 
`Maybe air, unlock chest, make it move. Is silent. Is still now.'
 
He moved to Pammie and they both backed away toward the far wall, the
candle flickering as they moved. Something small black and shiny scuttled
away from the small pool of light.
 
`Close the chest, Edward. Lock it again. Please.'
 
He studied her, saw the panic so close to the surface, the terror in her
eyes. He fought his own terror and revulsion at approaching the cadaver
again and, using her fear as a mask for his own, nodded and moved toward
the chest, taking the candle and its pool of light with him.
 
`Leave the candle.'
 
`Need see what I do.'
 
`I need it. I can't stand the dark.'
 
`Come, then.'
 
`I can't. Edward, help me.'
 
`You hold candle. I close chest and lock it.'
 
She swallowed her fear and approached him. Took the candle. Followed
him until the chest was again within the pool of light.
 
He tried. She held the candle high so he could work, her eyes on his
movements and not on the chest or its foul contents. But the violence
of his opening had twisted the hinges so that they snapped when he tried
to bend them back into shape. The lid clattered to the floor.
 
`If you'd been more careful...'
 
He picked up the lid and lay it in place but it no longer sat square on
the base. The metal catches were useless. Only the remaining strap was
left and that refused to buckle.
 
`Why did you have to be so violent with it?'
 
`I not know she put body in chest.'
 
When he'd done what he could, they moved back to the wall and sat on the
earth. Now she let herself weep a little and he comforted her, hiding
behind her allowed feminine display as best he could. The candle slowly
burned to a stub on the ground beside them.
 
`Will she leave us here forever?'
 
`She your Aunt.'
 
`Do you think she knew about... that?'
 
`She knew. She laugh.'
 
`She's punishing us. Thinks we're greedy, scheming.'
 
`She right.'
 
They talked around the subject of their possible freedom but both
understood that she could never let them go now that they'd seen what
was in the chest. If she knew what was in the chest then she must've
put the body in there. There was no other reasonable explanation.
 
Pammie watched the flame on the candle burn down. Edward saw the thoughts
running through her head and knew he must give them hope even though he
was convinced none was justified.
 
`She teach us lesson, nothing more. Soon she release us. Then we do her.'
 
`You don't know Aunt Martha. Anyway, if you hadn't pocketed those stupid
pot eggs we wouldn't...'
 
`No! The eggs...'
 
`What? What about them?'
 
To confess would be to bring her righteous anger and cause a fruitless
fight. He lied, of course. But he also prayed, for the first time in
his life, to a God he'd not acknowledged since childhood. He prayed
the old lady would see his booby traps and avoid them. He prayed she'd
realise that her life was almost over and that theirs had hardly begun,
that she could release them safe in the knowledge they'd say nothing to
the authorities until she was dead, if, of course, she were to grant
them some financial help. It was a simple enough scenario and one,
he was sure, she'd eventually reach herself. He put the idea to Pammie,
leaving out the part about the eggs.
 
`She might at that. It'll take her a little while to come to the same
conclusion but you're right. Of course, she'll come to the top of the
stairs and make the offer before she lets us out. If she's really locked
us in, that is.'
 
`I hear key in the lock.'
 
`I didn't see any key in that lock. Maybe she was just trying to fool
us. Maybe she's up there now, sitting in the library and laughing,
waiting for us to emerge.'
 
`I think door locked.'
 
`The candle's going to burn out soon. We have to check. Come on.'
 
Pammie rose, wiped the earth from her skin and pulled Edward, doubting,
to his feet.
 
`If candle go out when we half up, half down, what then?'
 
`Come on!'
 
Reluctantly, he allowed her to lead him. If activity would help her,
then so be it. They reached the stairs and began to climb, Pammie cupping
the flickering flame to stop it going out.
 
Two steps from the top of the flight, the candle reached the end of its
life and went out. They stood in total darkness. Not even the daylight
slivers from outside illuminated the blackness now; night was falling
fast outside.
 
Edward took the matches from his pocket and struck one to light their
way to the top step. He pushed the door. Nothing happened.
 
`It's stuck. Anyway, it opens inwards. Give it a pull.'
 
`Is locked.'
 
`Try it again, damn you!'
 
Resigned, he pulled the iron ring. Slight movement encouraged Pammie but
he was convinced it was merely a small amount of slack in the lock. The
match went out. He struck another.
 
`Again. Put some muscle into it.'
 
He passed her the flaming stick, slipped the box back into his pocket,
and pulled against the handle with as much force as he could muster. The
wood groaned and he felt movement through his arm and shoulder. He tugged
harder, wrenching at the ring of rusting iron, his foot hard against the
stone of the tower wall. The mounting gave. The metal pins that held it
to the wood had been eaten by centuries of damp air, corroded. The flat
heads of the pins disintegrated under the force of his pull. He swayed
back, leaning into the void behind. For a moment, he hung at the point
of balance.
 
Pammie held the burning match until the flame reached her fingers and
she had to drop it into the gloom. In the moment of silence she waited,
knowing there was nothing she could do to help Edward should he fall.
 
`Light another match, Edward.'
 
Silence. A soft susurration passed her. The air moved. A grunt came
belatedly from below. A split second later she heard the thud as his
body hit the ground.
 
Pammie stood frozen on the step.
 
`Edward.'
 
No answer.
 
`Edward!'
 
Silence followed the dying echo of her shout.
 
`Aunt Martha!' Her shout might wake the dead but couldn't be heard
outside the stone walls of the tower that imprisoned her.
 
* * *
 
In the library, Martha slept the untroubled sleep of the drunk until
dawn woke her through uncurtained windows. She stirred and rose. The
kitchen door opened, as she was brewing tea, and let the milkman in.
 
Guilt made her sharp and short.
 
`I'll not need any milk for a few days. My visitors will shop for me. Tell
Robert I'll not need him either for a week or so.'
 
He nodded and left her to it, wondering at the absence of any sign of
visitors but unwilling to risk her sharp tongue.
 
Martha took her tea and toast back to the library and sat deep in
thought. At length, she came to the same conclusion as Edward. She
had little to lose, even if they reneged on any deal she might make
with them. But whatever else happened, she couldn't let them die in the
tower. They'd had enough time to learn a lesson. If they reported her
to the police, so be it.
 
She'd go down and release them, no matter how little they might deserve
such kindness. She couldn't go to her grave with their deaths on her
conscience.
 
Peter was different. He'd tried to rape her, threatened to leave
her there, naked and alone, to use as and when he would, until she
died. Yes. He was different.
 
She opened the cellar door, stepped onto the stairway, and recalled the
egg only when her foot found it. She tumbled down the full flight. Death
took her slowly via broken arm and fractured hip. She suffered pain and
the growing knowledge that she'd never release her prisoners nor be able
to inform anyone else of their presence in the tower.
 
* * *
 
Pammie edged her way back down the steps. In the darkness, it took her
eternity until she found her way to Edward. She took the matches from
his pocket and discovered him broken and dying against the chest. His
head had struck the lid and dislodged it again. His left arm was twisted,
shattered beneath his body. Blood flowed in soft dark pulses from his
temple and down his neck, staining the crisp whiteness of his shirt. She
struck matches to check his state.
 
In the chest, the reaching hand trembled in the flickering flame. She
steeled herself against that horror as she cared for Edward, cradling
him against her breast.
 
His breathing slowed as warm blood congealed on her skin, cooling as he
slowly died. His voice was quiet, expressing only his agony, begging for
help. Pammie gave the scant comfort words alone allowed. The final match
burned down to her fingers and darkness returned. And, in the blackness,
his breathing failed. Behind her, in the open chest, the searching hand
reached ever out.
 
================