Ryan Smithers knew the manor to a degree, but his knowledge extended to the posh upper levels. Beneath the entry level were the bowels of the manor, the inner workings. The servants' quarters were located lower level, as were the concealed loading docks, Burns' museum-like garage, and the various cellars.
Ryan had never been in the lower levels except for the garage. He knew it shared an access route with the loading docks, so by that logic the servants' quarters and kitchen couldn't be far off. It made sense to him at least, that everything would be close by.
He took the stairs down from the main hall, the board steps narrowing at the second landing, and wood paneled walls giving way to wainscot. The garage would be up ahead, beyond the lower gallery, but Ryan veered down a side corridor, less decorative than the rest.
In Ryan's analytical brain, thinking in three dimensions came easily to him. He was currently under the eastern portion of the manor, though not directly below the residential wing. The corridor he followed was more of a utility passage.
From time to time, other passages branched off. There were several closed doors along the hall, the rabbit warren of the servants' quarters. Each had unit number and a simple transom window above that could be opened for ventilation.
Burns had always boasted he kept a full complement of house staff, but even Ryan hardly saw them. Following Burns' explicit instructions, they kept their presence discrete to the point of invisibility. Ryan would come back to find his room had been cleaned, his bed turned down as if by magic. Sometimes, Ryan mused, it was easy to forget there were actual people doing all this work.
Ahead, behind a closed door, Ryan could hear noise, the clatter of a plate on a counter. Through the smoky glass panes in the door, Ryan could make out two or three figures seated around a comfortable table. He heard them chatting amiably, though he couldn't quite make out words.
Without hesitation, he pushed the door open.
Everyone at the table froze.
Three sets of eyes immediately locked onto Ryan, their owners' expressions nervous. One of the men was clearly a gardener or groundskeeper. His hands were rough, and permanently stained by the soil. The second was a woman probably in her thirties. She wore slacks and the stripped smock of a housekeeper. The third was practically a youth himself: a tapered face with deep-set, worried eyes, and blond hair that came down around his ears. He wore a red tie and silver vest. His black suitcoat had been carefully hung over the back of his chair.
Ryan felt suddenly and deeply self-conscious, and resisted the urge to turn and run. He rubbed his arms and stepped into the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind him.
The room was quaint, homey. It reminded him of the kitchen back at the apartment he and his mother had shared in Philadelphia. The floor was black and white checkered tiles. A butcher-block doubled as a counter along one wall between the stove and refrigerator. A door opened to the yards beyond, and a series of windows let in what natural light could be found on this autumn day. Even with the cloudy skies, the room seemed light and welcoming.
Ryan found himself hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia.
The young man, not much older than Ryan was the first two speak. "Uh, Master Smithers," he began hesitantly, his voice rather accented, "what, uh… what brings you this way, sir?"
Being addressed as "sir" and "master" were off-putting enough to Ryan. When they came from someone who could've been his peer, it only heightened the awkwardness he felt.
"I was looking for…" Ryan began, then paused. How did he explain himself? He shuffled his feet. "Is there a pantry here?"
The youth nodded. "Of course, sir. But there is much better fare in the main kitchens above. Please, Master Smithers, if its food Sir wants, I would be happy to have Chef prepare a meal." He rose, beckoning Ryan follow him.
"No, no." Ryan shook his head. "I mean here. And I'm not looking for food. I'm… looking for something else." Ryan swallowed uncomfortably. "I don't suppose there's anyone by the name of Johan here?"
The youth looked back to his companions, who shook their heads.
"No one by that name on the household staff, Master. Nor on the grounds. Perhaps the young Master is mistaken?"
Ryan folded his arms across his chest. "No. I'm not mistaken. According to Johan there's a safe in the pantry, and I need to get something out of it."
The young man's eyes flickered anxiously. He retrieved a walkie-talkie from his vest pocket. "Elise?"
A voice cracked back. "Yes, Ian?"
"Could you come down to the lower kitchens, please?"
"I'm in the middle of laundry."
"Please. The laundry can wait, this is a rather urgent matter."
"I'll be there in a moment."
Ian stuck the walkie-talkie back in his pocket and gestured to an empty seat at the table. "Would the young Master please sit? Might I offer you a refreshment from our meager stores?"
Ryan found Ian's obsequious manner rather over the top. In his eyes, they couldn't be more than a two, maybe three years apart. To have someone his own age, practically a kid, bowing and fawning was all too much. Ryan didn't move towards the table, didn't sit.
"Ian, right? Jeeze, you can lay off the servant gig. I'm not here to be all 'master of the house,' or whatever," Ryan said, holding up his hands. "I'm just here to try and find something, and then I'll be out of your way, okay?"
Ian bowed, yet again. "If the young Master changes his mind, sir…" He dipped his head and took a step to the side, folding his hands behind his back. He straightened his back, took a 'thousand-yard stare' and stood still as a statue.
The kitchen door opened, and a woman came bustling in. Ryan recognized her immediately. When Ryan arrived unannounced at Burns Manor so many weeks before, he and his father had taken dinner on the veranda out back, Elise had served them. She had a good-natured face, and twinkling eyes. That day her hair had been down, curled about her neck. Today, she wore it up under a net. It made no difference to Ryan. He smiled as soon as he saw her.
She froze for a second when she saw him, caught momentarily off-guard. She tapped her throat with a hand before regaining composure.
"Ryan Smithers, sir; what brings you down this way?" She glanced around the room. "I'll say you're making everyone feel nervous with your presence."
Ryan looked away, chastised.
"I was just looking for something. I got this note from Johan, and it says something about a safe in the pantry down here."
Elise blinked in surprise. "Well there's a name I haven't heard in years. How did you come across it?" She put a hand on her hip.
Ryan hung his head. "A bit of a scavenger hunt, I guess." It was close enough to the truth.
"Well, this is all very unprecedented," Elise remarked, wringing her hands in her apron. Her tone was that of almost maternal disapproval.
Ryan's face dropped further. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.
Ian snapped out of his frozen pose, and in a single swift motion was at Elise's side. He took her by the elbow and leaned in, lips mere inches from her ear. "Elise," he hissed. "I'll not have you speak this way to a principal."
Elise's expression hardened for a moment. She took a step back. "Selkirk," she replied in a hushed voice, "I am well aware of who our principal is. You requested my assistance, let me provide it."
Ian Selkirk released her elbow. He made a go-on gesture with his hand.
Elise returned her attention to Ryan. She gestured to the table. "Please, sit."
Ryan sat.
Elise retrieved clean glass and a spoon from the counter. She paused at the fridge, back to Ryan. A moment later she returned the table, a glass of chocolate milk in hand.
Ryan wrapped both hands around it and smiled. "You remembered!"
Elise smiled. "It's my job. Now, Ryan, you were asking about Johan?"
Ryan nodded.
"Back in the forties, possibly even earlier, Mister Burns had himself a houseman by that name. I wasn't here back then, I met the fellow shortly before he retired, back in the seventies. Johan was the major domestic of that era, a title that passed through several hands - including, informally, your father – and most recently, to Ian Selkirk. Ian joined the staff shortly after your father moved in. Your father's role in the household changed, and new staff was taken onboard accordingly."
Elise's face was completely neutral as she spoke, revealing nothing more than she chose to show.
Ryan sipped his milk.
"Johan was head-of-house; and one of the few staff whose presence was requested, possibly even expected, by our principal. He served as bodyguard, chauffer, and butler to Mister Burns, and Mister Smithers."
Ryan paused. "Wait, my father?"
Elise shook her head.
"No. Your grandfather." She looked around the room at the other staff before continuing. "People talk, but discretion is paramount. I know little more than what I've told you. It's public knowledge, albeit rarely spoken, that your grandfather and Mister Burns worked together as business partners during the nuclear boom of the fifties. They built the nuclear plant, and that changed the future of Springfield. That's truly all I know. If there is a safe in the pantry, I'm not aware of it, and I've been here longer than anyone else on staff."
Ryan glanced at Ian and the other faces around the table. They indicated yes, Elise spoke true.
"So that's it then," Ryan said, reaching a hand into his pocket and curling his fingers around the vial. "A dead end."
Elise raised her eyebrows. "Ryan, I said I didn't know about it. That doesn't mean it doesn't exist. If going through the pantry would set your mind at ease, far be it from me to stop you." She gestured to a door off to the side.
Ryan thanked her, and rose. Ignoring the self-conscious feelings in his stomach, he crossed the tile floor and stepped into the modest pantry beyond. It was a small room, shelves of dry food, canned goods and utensils lined one wall. The other wall was dedicated to hanging cookware. Ryan ran his hands along the walls, tapping as he went.
He moved the shelved goods the counter, examined the spaces behind. Again, nothing.
Beneath the counter was a row of cupboards. Ryan opened them out, removing the contents as he went. He was about to give up when something caught his eye. In the far corner, at the bottom of the cupboard, one of the floor planks was inconsistent with the others. Nothing quite as distinct as a different color, but the hue and texture was ever so slightly off.
Ryan crouched forward on his hands and knees, shoulders almost completely inside the cupboard, his own body blocking the light. He groped about, squinting in the shadows. His hands came to rest on the plank, and it shifted slightly, as if meant to be removed. There was no place for his fingers to grab an edge.
Without hesitation, Ryan pulled himself back and grabbed a knife off the counter. He leaned in once again, carefully wedging the knife tip between the edges of wood.
A bit of wiggling, careful prying, and there! He lifted the plank up and pulled it out, exposing a hole below.
"Does anyone have a flashlight?" he called out, reaching behind him.
The metal cylinder of a Maglite plunked into his outstretched hand. "Thanks!"
The blue-white beam was almost blinding inside the tiny space. Ryan shifted his body, half-crawling, half lying on his side. He tucked the flashlight between his shoulder and cheek, and peered into the small opening in the floor.
The plank had been a cover for a safe. Try as he might, there was no way to lift it out. It had been apparently built into the cupboard itself. The top had a series of buttons on it, numbered from zero to nine, and a small toggle lever.
Optimistically, Ryan tried the toggle.
As expected, it didn't budge.
Ryan was glad he'd memorized the numbers. There was no way he would've been able to fish the tiny vial out of his pocket at this uncomfortable angle. 0, 8, 9, 1, 3. He entered the numbers in one at time, each press yielding a click. It was almost anticlimactic. There was no sound of mechanisms releasing, no hiss or clank like he'd seen in the movies.
He tried the toggle again, and this time it turned easily to the right. The lid popped up with a snap. Ryan opened it the rest of the way, and peered as best he could inside.
The space beyond was smaller than expected. Most of the volume was taken up by the thick, and probably fireproof walls of the safe. There was barely enough space for a single wooden box. It was scarcely larger than a pizza box, maybe a bit thicker.
Ryan hauled it out, shutting the safe behind it.
He slithered his head and body out of the cupboard, and took a moment to examine his prize. It was latched on all four sides, and tied shut with twine.
That's it? He thought questioningly. A box!?
Ryan set the box on the counter and returned the contents of the cupboard.
"Did you find anything?" Ian asked, peering around the doorway, his bearing momentarily forgotten.
"Yeah," Ryan replied, latching the cupboard and straightening up. "This." He held up the box. For a moment, Ryan debated opening it, but he had a feeling the contents were not for everyone's eyes. He wrapped it to his chest protectively, as if daring anyone to challenge his possession.
No one did.
Ian stepped aside as Ryan passed by. He moved awkwardly through the kitchen, unsure of what to say. At the door he paused, looking back at Ian and Elise. "Thanks," he said, cradling the box tightly.
Ian didn't move, but Elise gave him a professionally pleasant nod.
Feeling only a little less self-conscious, but still terribly out of place, Ryan darted back through the corridor, up into the main levels of Burns Manor. He didn't stop till he was safely back in his room. There, curled comfortably on his bed, he untied the string and opened the clasps. Inside the box, nestled in protective foam padding, was a flat circular tin.
Ryan opened it, curious. Inside was a thick film reel. He delicately lifted it out and examined it.
The first few frames were dark. It was a wider film than he was expecting. Along the side of the pictures were several grey bars, that looked like images he'd seen of audio frequencies.
Ryan had no idea what he was looking at.
And what was on the film?
Carefully, Ryan placed it gently back into its protective case, and rolled on his back. He stared at the ceiling of his room and thought.
The media room! Burns' in-house movie theatre! When he'd been up in the projection booth loading DVDs into the player, he'd noticed several old film projectors that looked to be still in working condition. How hard could it be to figure them out?
Ryan shoved the tin back into the box, tucked it under his arm, and hurried down to the theatre room.
It didn't take Ryan Smithers long to figure out how to thread the film through one of the cameras. All the dimensions were listed on the film, and the projector had a set of diagrams printed on its side. Ryan dimmed the lights. The projector spun to life.
A series of circles flashed across the screen, then several numbers counting down. The theatre speakers beeped with each number. Audio and video, in one film! Ryan had never even imagined such a thing. He pulled up a metal stool, and leaned over the edge of the balcony.
The scene opened into a familiar setting: the marble fireplace in his father's room, with the polar bear rug, and the two wing chairs. One of the chairs had been moved out of the way, the other pushed to the center of the hearth.
A man sat in the chair, leaning forward. He wore black pants, a black jacket, and a red shirt with a slate grey tie. Ryan clasped his hands over his mouth. Though he'd never seen the man before, the figure was unmistakably familiar. Though his hairline had receded drastically, and his eyes were a scintillating shades of green and light brown, the it was like looking at a photo of Ryan's own father that had been altered to add years. The man was unmistakable. Ryan knew, without question, that he was staring into the hazel eyes of his own grandfather: Waylon Smithers, Senior.
"Is that thing on, Johan?" Waylon Sr. asked, fidgeting with his tie tack.
"Yes, Herr Smithers; we are recording." Johan's voice came from somewhere offscreen, softspoken, with a distinct German accent.
"Good, good," the man replied, resting his hands on his lap. Ryan noted the man wore a silver band around the ring finger of each hand. Waylon Sr. crossed his legs and looked directly into the camera. "Well met at last, my friend."