A Red Herring Without Mustard

“I’d like to,” she said, “but it’s hard to imagine such ladylike young women operating their own private dungeon.”

Ladylike young women? I’m afraid I almost uttered a word that would have shocked a sailor.

“Come on,” I said, leaping to my feet and tugging at her arm. “I’ll show you what ladylike young women get up to when no one is looking.”

“Cor!” Porcelain said. “It’s a bloody crypt!”

In spite of an occasional electric bulb strung here and there on frayed wiring, the cellars were a sea of darkness. I had brought from the pantry the pewter candlestick that was kept for those not infrequent occasions when the current failed at Buckshaw, and I held it above my head, moving the flickering light from side to side.

“See? There’s the sack they threw over my head.

“And look,” I said, holding the candle down close to the flagstones. “Here are their footprints in the dust.”

“Seems like rather a lot of them for a couple of ladylike young women,” Porcelain said skeptically. “Rather large, too,” she added.

She was right. I could see that at once.

Distinct footprints led off into the darkness, too big to be Daffy’s or mine or Feely’s, which mingled near the bottom of the stairs. Nor were they Father’s: He had not come all the way down the steps, and even if he had, his leather-soled shoes left distinct impressions with which I was quite familiar.

Dogger’s footprints, too, were unmistakeable: long and narrow, and placed one in front of the other with the precision of a red Indian.

No, these were not Father’s footprints, nor were they Dogger’s. If my suspicions were correct, they had been made by someone wearing rubber boots.

“Let’s see where they go,” I said.

Porcelain’s presence bucked up my bravery no end, and I was ready to follow the prints to wherever they might take us.

“Do you think that’s wise?” she asked, the whites of her eyes flashing in the light of the candle. “No one knows we’re down here. If we fell into a pit or something, we might die before anyone found us.”

“There are no pits down here,” I said. “Just a lot of old cellars.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve been down here hundreds of times.”

Which was a lie: Prior to my inquisition, I had been in the cellars just once, with Dogger, when I was five, hunting for a pair of eighteenth-century alabaster urns that had been put away at the beginning of the war to protect them from possible air raids.

Candle held high, I set off along one of the black passageways. Porcelain could either follow, or stay where she was in the dark shadows between the widely spaced electric bulbs.

Needless to say, she followed.

I had already formed the theory that the footprints had been made by Brookie Harewood—the late Brookie Harewood—but there was no point in mentioning this to Porcelain, who would probably get the wind up at the very idea of following in a dead man’s footsteps.

But what on earth could Brookie have been doing in the Buckshaw cellars?

“Poachers know all the shortcuts,” Father had once said, and again, he was probably right.

As we passed under a low brick archway, I let my mind fly back to the night I had caught Brookie in his midnight prowl of the drawing room. It was hard to believe that had been only five days ago.

I still had a perfect mental image of our strange interview, which had ended with Brookie warning me against housebreakers who might have their eyes on Father’s silver. “Lot of that going on nowadays, since the war,” he had said.

And then I had opened one of the French doors and made it quite clear that I wanted him to leave.

No—wait!—I had first unlocked the door!

The door had been locked when I entered the drawing room. And there was no earthly reason to believe that Brookie had locked it behind him if he had broken into the house from the terrace. He’d have wanted it ready for a quick escape, had he been in danger of being caught.

It was reasonable, therefore, to assume that Brookie had gained entry to the house by some other route: through the cellars, for instance.

And the footprints now before us, disappearing into the darkness—quite clear impressions of a fisherman’s gum boots, now that I stopped to think about it—suggested that my assumption was correct.

“Come on,” I said, sensing that Porcelain was hanging back. “Stay close behind me.”

I thought I heard a little whimper, but I may have been wrong.

We had passed the end of the string of electric lights, and were now in an arched passageway lined on both sides with piles of decaying furniture. Here the footprints—more than one set of them, but all made by the same pair of boots—revealed that they had ventured more than once into, and out of, Buckshaw. The most recent prints were razor sharp, while the older impressions were softened slightly by the incessant sifting of dust.

“What’s that?” Porcelain cried, seizing my shoulder with a painful grip.

Ahead of us, a shrouded object half blocked the passage.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I thought you’d been down here hundreds of times,” she whispered.