“Of course.”
The inside of the cottage was decorated with yellow gingham curtains, baskets hanging from ceiling beams, and rustic furniture built for small people.
Fowler examined every square inch of the interior. Treadles had no choice but to do the same.
To the experienced eye, there was no question that until quite recently there had been people inside. The policemen found strands of fine dark hair, in two different lengths, on the beds in the loft. The small stove on the ground floor had been used less than two days before, judging by the lack of dust on its surfaces. And a jar on the shelves above the stove contained several ginger biscuits, which according to the housekeeper—Treadles remembered this with a plummeting heart—Lord Ingram had been fetching from the stillroom in the middle of the night, even though he didn’t care for them.
As they started the walk to where they had left the horses, Fowler asked, “Mr. Platts, can you tell us if there is anything interesting or different about the coal cellar at Stern Hollow?”
“It’s certainly an amply proportioned one. And I’ve always appreciated the dumbwaiter that Lord Ingram had installed, so that the servants needn’t carry coal up and down the stairs. But beyond that—”
He stopped for a second. “How silly of me. I’ve become so accustomed to the estate’s various oddities—all great houses have them—that I didn’t think of it sooner. You see, Stern Hollow boasts a magnificent kitchen garden, one of the finest I’ve ever seen, and I try to visit them everywhere I go.
“The garden slopes downhill by design, to maximize exposure to sunlight. Unfortunately, this meant that the glass houses, which are built halfway down the slope, are approximately six feet below the top of the north wall, behind which stands the boiler hut. To send hot water to heat those glass houses and to ensure that the water returns, the boilers had to be sunk to a spectacular depth, almost eighteen feet, to be exact, as the boilers themselves are the tubular sort the height of which must also be accommodated.
“Once the boilers are lit for the winter, and they should be any day now, one of them must be operating at maximum capacity all the time, which means they must be stoked three times a day, and one more time late in the evening on particularly cold nights. A hair-raising task, it used to be, going down a pitch-dark pit on a rickety ladder bolted to the side of the chute, with a heavy basket of coke on one’s back.
“Some fifteen years ago one young man fell down the ladder and broke his limb. Lord Ingram’s godfather, who had acquired the house not long before, told me to do something—he didn’t want anyone else seriously injured in his service. How I was to accomplish this he left to me—he didn’t want to be bothered about details—only that something must be done.
“I puzzled over the solution. It was Lord Ingram, in fact, visiting on his school holidays, who suggested that since there was already an underground tunnel connecting the kitchen to the dining room, why should we not branch out and intersect it with one going from the coal cellar to the garden boilers?”
Mr. Platts, warming up to his subject, described the construction of this tunnel. Then he assured them that it had been worth the time and treasure, having made it both easy and safe to heat the glass houses.
Treadles could tell that Fowler had no interest in the finer points of this tunnel, but was biding his time until he could see it for himself. Back at the house, Mr. Platts gladly unlocked a double trap door in the coal cellar and led them down a ramp.
With considerable pride, the estate manager flipped a switch. A bright, if rather harsh light flooded the tunnel, which was wider than Treadles expected, enough for three slender men to walk abreast.
“Electricity, gentlemen—a wonder of the modern age.”
“Is the rest of the house electrified?” asked Treadles. “I don’t recall that being so.”
“The staff quarters and the domestic offices are all electrified, but not the main part of the house—Lady Ingram had strong feelings against electricity and her wishes were respected.”
Finally, an assertion to counterbalance ladies Avery and Somersby’s charge that Lady Ingram might have been made to feel unwelcome in her own home.
As if he hadn’t heard, Fowler said, “With your permission, we would like to walk the length of the tunnel.”
“Certainly. But you’ll excuse me for not accompanying you, gentlemen. I can’t spend much time in these confined, underground places without getting into a state.”
“You have already been most helpful, Mr. Platts. We can look after ourselves, and we will make sure everything is in order before we leave.”
Mr. Platts left for his regular duties. The policemen proceeded down the tunnel. By and by they came to a cross tunnel, which must be the one between the kitchen and the dining room. Then the tunnel began to slope downward noticeably. Treadles could feel grooves underfoot, to slow the descent of a wheelbarrow filled with coke, no doubt.
The fabled boilers came into sight, cold and silent, not yet lit for winter. Something else also came into sight: laden shelves.
The shelves must have been intended for the tools and implements necessary for the functioning of the boilers. But those had all been banished to a corner. Now the shelves were occupied by a thin, rolled-up mattress, toiletries, a row of foodstuffs from Swiss chocolate to tins of potted chicken and condensed milk. One section was devoted to picture books. There were also crayons and hand-sewn notebooks that contained children’s drawings.
Fowler picked up a small mug and handed it to Treadles. The remnants of its contents had yet to dry completely. He sniffed. Cocoa. And no more than two days old.
Fowler looked around for some more time. Then he nodded. “I believe I shall now speak to Lord Ingram.”
Treadles dreaded arriving at the library. Was this the beginning of the end? Was there anything he could do? Where was Miss Holmes—and had she prepared at all for this moment?
Miss Holmes was nowhereto be seen in the library. But Lord Ingram was not alone: With him was another man, elegantly turned out yet blank in some ways.
Lord Ingram turned to the man. “Allow me to present Chief Inspector Fowler and Inspector Treadles of Scotland Yard. Gentleman, Lord Bancroft Ashburton.”
His brother, then. The newly met men shook hands.
