"Could you hear anything from the main house?"
Holmes' question barely reached my ears, breathed on a whisper that failed to find the opposite wall. I shook my head without a word. He would know that such a silence did not necessarily mean safety.
Just as he knew I could not make myself as quietly heard as he could. His slow pace both acknowledged my current discomfort and ensured he did not trip, but he waited for a brighter portion of the tunnel before risking another question.
"Did you put any thought into its path?"
Only when I had guessed the ballroom's location. A gesture conveyed as much then noted the spot.
Hmm.
He did not need to make the sound for me to hear it—or to understand the trail of deductions leading straight to a working hypothesis. He would probably want to test that hypothesis later—and the tunnel's acoustics—but he did not say as much. Conversation waned as we navigated the many corners.
He slowed considerably when he realized we had descended underground. Several minutes checked the supports, the concrete lining the walls, and the occasional plant life falling through the ceiling. Three backtracks searched the walls for possible exits, though he evidently did not find anything. We finally reached the ladder's dead end.
"Watch the rungs."
The warning snapped his attention from the trapdoor above to the ladder in front of him. Moving his hand away from the rusted spot, a nod thanked me as he quickly climbed to push the wooden door out of the way.
"Which direction did you walk?"
"Both." I gratefully accepted the steadying hand, adding, "as far as I could and still be certain of my way back, but I still passed the same door three times."
He made no reply, closing and reburying the door as soon as I stepped clear. A slow circle checked the garden for another exit, and when that failed, he led the way to the main door and turned right, then left at the next fork. A choice of three paths picked the middle one, but the escaping pleasure on sight of the derelict fountain made no sense.
"Do you know where you're going?"
"Relatively," he promised, to my surprise. I had not expected him to answer. "One of the third story rooms overlooks the gardens. I saw only one fountain."
Which meant we might have a chance of finding our way out of this labyrinth. Good. No matter how many times I walked that tunnel, I would never find a shadowed, uneven floor easy to navigate. I much preferred entering by the front door.
A right, a left, then some hundred yards of no turns brought us to a section with fewer walls. He hesitated briefly before taking the second left, but less than twenty feet on that path doubled back to take the third left. The next right glimpsed the manor between two trees, though the subsequent garden hid it once more. A curtain of neatly trimmed ivy concealed a wall—and proved we had found the area the groundskeeper serviced—and two more lefts followed by three rights abruptly found the edge of the walled gardens. I barely concealed my relief on sight of the manor. Whoever had designed the grounds needed to learn some organization.
Holmes agreed, based on the smirk twitching his mouth, but he left the topic for later. "Did Sir Walter tell you where he would be?"
"Second floor of the west wing." I carefully avoided a loose paving stone. "He said his office overlooks the main walk."
Which meant that if he had been paying any attention this morning, he would realize Holmes and I approached the front door without having left by the front door, but I doubted he would comment. The front door did not constitute the manor's only exit, after all.
On finding the knob unexpectedly—thankfully—unlocked, Holmes quickly followed the hallway to the stairs, and we started checking doors. Only so many rooms overlooked the main entrance. We would find the right one soon enough.
"Art tha lost?"
We would find it faster with help. Raynolds' voice carried from the other end of the hall, then rapid footsteps approached as I turned. Amusement mixed with discomfort at finding Holmes' attention briefly caught by outdated decorations in the most recent room.
"Which is Sir Walter's office?" I asked before he could comment. "He told me he would be there until midday."
"Second t'last on th' right." He pointed back the way he had come. "'Tis th' only door wi' a fancy 'S.'"
He might have told me that earlier, I thought wryly, but a simple "thank you" let me follow Holmes' long stride. My friend barely waited for me to catch up before knocking sharply.
"Enter."
Sir Walter's office looked recently tidied—if not precisely cleaned. A light coating of dust outlined the previous locations of the papers now peeking from various filing cabinets, and two small rugs had moved to show the clean place beneath. Sunlight filtered in through the dimmed window in the far wall. Our host smiled a greeting from his chair on the other side of the desk, willingly dropping the papers he had been reading.
"Are you off to Thrombak, then?"
Holmes shook his head. "We have information for you. I presume the rooms on either side are empty?"
"Indeed they are. Both are unused bedrooms." He dragged his chair to join the two in front of his desk, waving us to take a seat. "You have located Greyson already?"
"No. We found a tunnel in our rooms." Keen eyes studied Sir Walter, apparently wondering if he had picked that guest suite on purpose. "It leads to the gardens, and someone has been using it to come and go without notice. This person has done so at least twice since we arrived—once last night, and once less than two hours ago."
He could not have suspected too strongly, to voice the situation rather than include Sir Walter among the suspects, but Sir Walter's clear surprise pushed the possibility further away. His reflexive question emerged such broad Yorkshire that I struggled to understand. A quick "excuse me" acknowledged the lapse before Holmes or I could ask him to repeat himself.
"I mean, do you know who?"
"I do not," Holmes returned. "I had hoped you might tell me. Who chose to put us in those rooms?"
"I did," he answered freely, "years ago. I always put guests in those rooms. Nara said my uncle did as well, but I don't know if he knew o' the tunnel. I didn't."
Some of the tension drained from Holmes' posture as he leaned forward in his seat, fingers steepled in front of him. "Who else knows about the manors having tunnels?"
He shook his head. "I have no way of answerin' that. Those passageways are original t'the manor. Any number o' people might've known from years ago or from finding them in another manor. I've not told anyone. Doubt th' others have either."
"What about the Thrombaks?" he asked next. "Did Lord Thrombak ever see them? Was he friends with your uncle?"
"Not likely." Huffed laugher announced that a foolish concept. "On both counts. That one is only three rooms away from copying the one I mentioned at Thrombak, but we discussed the passageways only when Gideon used them for mischief at Thrombak Manor, and Uncle Stuart was a grouchy old git. While nice enough to his staff, 'e still rarely left his rooms. I never did decide whether their loyalty was not half gratitude at being left alone to do their jobs."
That probably eliminated Nara and Raynolds from the list of suspects, but Holmes' hummed reply heard more in the words. A distracted thought wondered who he suspected.
"How much time has Gideon spent at Rossenthwaite?"
"Quite a bit, but I usually go to them. 'Twas always easier to manage a young boy in his own home. Are you saying Gideon might be behind this?"
"Simply gathering all the facts." Holmes' expression acknowledged the possibility, but something suggested a different culprit. A long moment evidently searched for anything else he wanted to ask. "If you will have us for another night," he finally continued, "I believe we would do better leaving for Thrombak Manor in the morning. I have something I would like to check along the way, so leaving just after midday or even now would risk us not arriving until well after sundown."
"Of course. You are welcome to stay as long as you need." A glance noted the bags we had dropped to the floor. "And I will have Raynolds ready another set of rooms," he added. "No one wants to sleep next to an exterior door."
I certainly did not, but Holmes merely nodded agreement. Sir Walter pulled his pocket watch into view, then slipped his paperwork into a convenient folder.
"Nara will have luncheon ready shortly," he said as he gained his feet. "I can catch Raynolds there. Are you joining us?"
I intended to, provided Holmes did not need me somewhere else, but Holmes' hastily smothered grimace indicated he would have skipped if not for the hunger demanding the case wait a few minutes. His feigned scowl noted my poorly hidden amusement even as he waved Sir Walter ahead of us.
"If I did not, your formidable cook would probably interrupt my work as she does yours."
Sir Walter's hearty laughter confirmed the deduction. "That she would. Hast nearly dragged me from my office many a'time, when she decided that I had gone too long without a break. Why, one day…"
He led the way down the hall, energetically relaying a story of Nara catching Gideon using the library to hide from his father—which led into several other times when Nara had decided that someone under her care needed to be somewhere other than where she had found them. Rather more forceful than Mrs. Hudson despite their many similarities, most accounts ended with her berating or, in the case of a young Gideon, leading the culprit by the ear. The stories eventually merged into humorous accounts of Gideon's childhood, and I reciprocated with a few stories from my own childhood in rural Scotland.
Holmes listened attentively, if mostly silently. The occasional question directed Sir Walter into a more desirable topic, but my friend did not join our banter, nor did he appear to even look at our host.
He certainly did not look at me. Rapid strides remained inches away from the hallway's other wall, scanning Sir Walter's baseboards and completely missing my hinted requests to slow down. When Holmes showed himself less observant than a man we had known for less than a day, I finally pushed my thoughts aside and focused on the case. Finding Lord Thrombak mattered far more than some argument I did not even understand. Whatever I had done wrong, we would not solve it nine hours' train ride from home.
After all, Holmes had proven many times that he could unravel his cases without me.
Hands up if you think Holmes is going to feel like an idiot later.
Anyone have any guesses on the culprit?
Lol, hope you're enjoying, and thank you to the guest who reviewed last chapter :D