Chapter 6

We went back down to the cellar.  The walls were plastered and painted white and there was no sign of an entrance to another room.  Patrick picked up an old broom from the corner of the room and, using the handle, tapped his way along the length of the wall facing the steps.  At one end was a section that sounded different.  He hit the plaster with the broom handle.  The plaster cracked, but the handle wasn’t heavy enough and couldn’t dislodge the plaster.

There was nothing suitable in the cellar, so he went up to the garage.  A few minutes later he came back with a crowbar and a torch.  He bashed away the plaster, gradually revealing a wooden door set flush into the brickwork.  It was bolted at the top and bottom with heavy bolts.  They were stiff, but he managed to loosen them by tapping them with the crowbar.  Behind the door was another, smaller, room.  He shone the torch around it.  It was empty except for a skeleton in one dusty corner, and a few scraps of clothing.  The skeleton was curled into a foetal position, so it took me a few moments to realise that it was missing a hand, the left hand, severed at the wrist.

We stood for a while, not saying anything.  Patrick shone the torch round the room again.  There were some faint scratch marks on the inside of the door, but nothing else.

“It’s Beth,” I said.  “He locked her in here.  She died in here.”

“No, it can’t be Beth,” said Alastair.  “She was killed in the fire.”

“Anyone could have died in the fire.  The body was burned – how hard did they try to identify it?  Beth was missing, they thought it must be her.  He set it all up.  She was in the house watching the fire and he attacked her.  I saw it.  They can check the DNA, but I know it’s her.”  I took the torch from Patrick and looked at the scratches on the door.  “She was alive when he left her – she tried to get out.”  Suddenly it overwhelmed me, like a wave breaking over me, and I lost my footing, falling against Patrick.  He tried to support me but my legs had gone and I sat down on the ground, my back to the wall.  I felt a surge of grief, and Beth’s pain and anguish.  I started sobbing.

“Let’s get out of here.”  Patrick put his arm round me, lifted me,  and led us through the other room and back to the kitchen.  

My hands were clammy and suddenly the bracelet that I was still wearing felt tight on my wrist.  I had to get rid of it.  George had given it to Beth.  He must have loved her when he started making the box, but must have seen her with the stable boy, and after that the box had another purpose.  I tried to undo the clasp of the bracelet, wanted it away from me, but it had jammed again,  I pulled at it, twisting the metal. 

Patrick turned to me.  “Jo, your hand, stop it, what have you done?”

I looked down at my hand.  The edge of the bracelet had caught in my skin and blood was pouring over my wrist.

THE END

© Anthony Judge 2022