the prie-dieu was a small table with two candles in holders and a small crucifix. The candles were not lit, but a small oil lamp had been, casting sullen shadows over the room. Luisaâs head was bowed and her hands were clasped in the classic prayer attitude.
None of this was especially worrying, but it was faintly puzzling. Did Luisa regularly follow this eerie ritual? Did she unlock the door every night to let some shadowy figure in, then come down here? If so, it could explain why she had been so reluctant for Michael to spend the night here. But why, with the whole of Fosse House at her disposal and no one to question her actions, would she have a makeshift chapel in this chill, inaccessible room? Was it a remnant from the houseâs past â perhaps with a religious connection? But it was at least four hundred years since any kind of religious oppression had held sway in England, and Fosse House did not seem old enough to have priestsâ holes or secret chapels for Papist practices.
Still slightly concerned, Michael ventured down two more steps, which gave him a wider view of the cellar. As well as the prie-dieu there was a small writing desk with a chair drawn up to it; on its surface was a thick-bound book lying open, together with a second lamp, unlit.
In the far corner was a low table, half covered with a length of dark velvet. No, it was not a table, it was an immense oak chest, waist-high, iron bound, and with a domed lid. The velvet was bunched and creased, and it was possible to see that a thick chain with a padlock was wrapped around the chest. Michael had been thinking the cellar was not sinister, only rather sad, but seeing this chest and the heavy chain, he was aware of a dark unease. Why the chains? What was so valuable it had to be kept in an underground room and secured so firmly?
Luisa got up from the prie-dieu, bowed her head â again it was the classic gesture before an altar â then crossed to the desk and reached for the second lamp and the matches standing nearby. Michael was aware of a jab of apprehension as the match flared up, but Luisaâs movements were smooth and assured. She adjusted the funnel of the lamp with the ease of familiarity, then sat down. Reaching for the book, she opened it, picked up a modern biro and began to write in it. Diary? Journal? Whatever it was, her whole attitude was one of utter absorption and Michael thought he could have stomped down the staircase in spiked mountaineering boots without her noticing.
But whatever all this was, and however odd it seemed, it was nothing to do with him, and Luisa appeared to be all right. Michael went quietly back up the steps and closed the door softly. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the half hour past midnight. He was wide awake, and the prospect of lying restlessly in the old bed was not inviting. Could he put in another spell of work? Yes, he could. And if he left the library door ajar he would be able to see and hear Luisa emerge from the cellar. He still had a nagging concern about her â which was absurd, since she most likely descended to that underground room on any number of nights, and appeared to have done so without any noticeable harm. But he would like to be sure.
The library was warm and friendly. Michael switched on the desk lamp, reached for his notebook, and opened the file containing the Charterhouse letter from Chuffy. That part of the file did not, however, appear to contain any more nuggets, and after a quarter of an hour of turning over the faded, dog-eared pages, he abandoned it, and picked up another one. The contents of this looked older, but most of the documents were in French, and Michael, aware of his imperfect knowledge of the language, sighed at the thought of struggling with more translating. Perhaps Luisa would let him take everything back to Oxford where someone in Modern Languages would most likely zip through the papers with contemptuous ease.
But on the first
None of this was especially worrying, but it was faintly puzzling. Did Luisa regularly follow this eerie ritual? Did she unlock the door every night to let some shadowy figure in, then come down here? If so, it could explain why she had been so reluctant for Michael to spend the night here. But why, with the whole of Fosse House at her disposal and no one to question her actions, would she have a makeshift chapel in this chill, inaccessible room? Was it a remnant from the houseâs past â perhaps with a religious connection? But it was at least four hundred years since any kind of religious oppression had held sway in England, and Fosse House did not seem old enough to have priestsâ holes or secret chapels for Papist practices.
Still slightly concerned, Michael ventured down two more steps, which gave him a wider view of the cellar. As well as the prie-dieu there was a small writing desk with a chair drawn up to it; on its surface was a thick-bound book lying open, together with a second lamp, unlit.
In the far corner was a low table, half covered with a length of dark velvet. No, it was not a table, it was an immense oak chest, waist-high, iron bound, and with a domed lid. The velvet was bunched and creased, and it was possible to see that a thick chain with a padlock was wrapped around the chest. Michael had been thinking the cellar was not sinister, only rather sad, but seeing this chest and the heavy chain, he was aware of a dark unease. Why the chains? What was so valuable it had to be kept in an underground room and secured so firmly?
Luisa got up from the prie-dieu, bowed her head â again it was the classic gesture before an altar â then crossed to the desk and reached for the second lamp and the matches standing nearby. Michael was aware of a jab of apprehension as the match flared up, but Luisaâs movements were smooth and assured. She adjusted the funnel of the lamp with the ease of familiarity, then sat down. Reaching for the book, she opened it, picked up a modern biro and began to write in it. Diary? Journal? Whatever it was, her whole attitude was one of utter absorption and Michael thought he could have stomped down the staircase in spiked mountaineering boots without her noticing.
But whatever all this was, and however odd it seemed, it was nothing to do with him, and Luisa appeared to be all right. Michael went quietly back up the steps and closed the door softly. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the half hour past midnight. He was wide awake, and the prospect of lying restlessly in the old bed was not inviting. Could he put in another spell of work? Yes, he could. And if he left the library door ajar he would be able to see and hear Luisa emerge from the cellar. He still had a nagging concern about her â which was absurd, since she most likely descended to that underground room on any number of nights, and appeared to have done so without any noticeable harm. But he would like to be sure.
The library was warm and friendly. Michael switched on the desk lamp, reached for his notebook, and opened the file containing the Charterhouse letter from Chuffy. That part of the file did not, however, appear to contain any more nuggets, and after a quarter of an hour of turning over the faded, dog-eared pages, he abandoned it, and picked up another one. The contents of this looked older, but most of the documents were in French, and Michael, aware of his imperfect knowledge of the language, sighed at the thought of struggling with more translating. Perhaps Luisa would let him take everything back to Oxford where someone in Modern Languages would most likely zip through the papers with contemptuous ease.
But on the first
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