The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

The last time I woke the cat was gone and my door was ajar, a slice of deeper darkness in the shadowy room. The doors in the bedrooms were latched rather than knobbed, so it was possible that the cat had opened it
on his own,
but my hands shook as I reached for my flashlight and switched it on. It helped to have light, but there was a large part of me that was afraid of the dark—at least the dark in that house—and it did not place much confidence in my plastic device to protect me from it. It was embarrassing, but the rational conviction I used every day of my life was ready to abdicate to supernatural terror. One clanking chain, one mournful wail, and I would forget that I didn’t believe in ghosts and run screaming into the night.

There was a violent gust of wind and a blast of air from the chimney that scattered soot across the floor. Then it reversed itself and it felt as if all the air was sucked out of the room, making the bed curtains sway. The house’s ghostly larynx moaned. I had heard of things like this happening in hurricanes and tornadoes, but we weren’t having a violent storm. This was just the usual night rain with the standard collision of clouds that led to distant lighting. I needed to ignore the trilling of my nerves, which were not doing the usual low thrum of sensible concern at strange weather, but letting off an irrational screech from the highest register reserved for supernatural phenomenon.

Something wasn’t right. I got out of bed. My borrowed nightgown was warm, but it could not chase away the cold of predawn fear. A glance at the window showed me it was later than I thought. There was a pencil-thin squiggle of light showing between the clouds. Not true dawn yet, but the sun rose quickly over the water where there were no mountains or trees to delay it.

Down the stairs I went, wasting no time with creeping. Nor did I look at the front door for fear that I might just keep heading that way and not stop until I was at Ben’s house. Instead I turned left at the hall and headed for the kitchen and then right to the chimney where the basement door was concealed.

The door was closed.
Bolted.
This was a tremendous relief. But the cat was mewling loudly, using both front paws to claw at the door. Cold seeped over the gap at the sill and grasped my toes. I could smell the sea. It was the same current that I had felt and smelled that first night. It tasted of ocean and something more pungent.

“What the.…” But my brain could only regurgitate the suggestion of a ghost in the basement, so I stopped asking it questions.

Instead I sat down on the oaken settle across the room and waited for the sun to come up. Kelvin came and lay beside me, staring fixedly at the bolted door.

An hour later, fortified with a cup of tea and dressed in Grandma’s dungarees, I went back to the basement door. It did not surprise me that Kelvin was still waiting there, still staring.

Anger had mostly replaced fear, but it took courage to pull back the bolt and open the door on the damp darkness. I had two flashlights with me. One I would hang as a lantern and the other I would use as it had been intended. Night was over and the sun was up. Everything would be fine.

The basement was, as ever, empty of obvious life—no new cobwebs, no mouse droppings, nothing to suggest that Kelvin and I were not utterly alone. There was, however, a scent clutching at the now still air and occasionally tweaking my nose. It wasn’t the wholesome smell of the ocean either. It smelled vaguely like a distillery I had visited in Scotland on one of those seven countries in seven days tours I had taken right after college.

It was probably unattractive, but I sniffed and sniffed, imitating a bloodhound. My nose led me to the locked cupboard and I knelt down and inhaled at the crack. That was where the smell came from. No longer in the mood to hunt for keys or secret latches, I went and got a crowbar. I used it forcefully on the heavy panel, irritation lending me strength. The door popped open with a screech and something heavy hit the floor. The wobbling light showed me the latching mechanism on the inside was intact, but the screws had rusted and popped free of the wood when I pried it open. Even metal could be defeated by the damp salt air.

Exhaling, I turned the flashlight into the cupboard and immediately spotted a gap in the back wall. It was only a little surprising to find a sliding panel and behind that a short stair and then a downward sloping tunnel which I could barely see while leaning into the closet. The chisel marks on the stone walls and the wooden steps showed me the tunnel was manmade, or at least man-modified. I crouched again and shone my light around a bit, pretending to examine the footprints on the steps while considering what to do next.

One kind of woman—a smarter or more timid or less annoyed one—might close the door, wedge a chair against it, and go call Harris or the police.

Except, was that smart? Harris had known my great-grandfather very well. Was he truly ignorant of the tunnel? Or had he failed to mention it because it could give me a distaste of Wendover House?

Had he failed to mention it because he was using it for some reason, a reason he didn’t want me to know anything about?

And what could I say to Bryson or Everett Sands if I called? Having a tunnel in one’s basement was not a police matter. Not unless someone was using it and I had no proof of that. Not yet.

Anyway, it was probably shutting the barn door after the horse was gone. Whoever had been here was probably long gone. There had been days—or at least nights—for them to learn that a new person was in the house and that I was being bothered enough by noises in the basement to put a lock on the door and ask questions about a sea cave.

“Oh, what the hell.”

I stepped through the cupboard. It was a relief to find Kelvin padding along beside me in a most relaxed manner.

“
Reow
,” he said encouragingly, happy that I had finally gotten the message.

Fear and irritation went away. I had stepped through the looking glass and into history. I had a hidden tunnel in my basement! This was great! I didn’t know anyone who had a hidden tunnel.

The smell of booze was strong in the air, though it grew weaker as I got closer to the mouth of the small cave which I also had expected to find. About ten feet in from the opening there was a sort of winch with a broken cable bolted to the slanting floor. The end had frayed, parting the metal strands. The break looked recent. There was rust on the rest of the cable but the ends were still shiny.

What was a surprise were the half dozen barrels still in the cave, one of which was broken open. It was the contents which were perfuming the restless breeze that breathed in and out with the noisy waves, splashing at the cave’s narrow mouth as they did their best to get inside. The other barrels were set up on ledges above the water line. The watermarks showed that the cave did not submerge completely at high tide. That there were still puddles of booze left meant someone had visited me last night after the tide had turned. That was doubtless what had roused the cat.

“Kelvin, don’t drink that!” I scolded as the cat sniffed at a golden puddle, but my brain was busy trying to assimilate what it was seeing.

Someone was using my cave to hide barrels of liquor. Surely that meant smuggling. Why else risk trespassing and hiding the casks in so inconvenient a place? And this enterprise wasn’t anything recent either. This cave had been here for a long time, long enough for certain barnacles and plants to attach themselves to the walls. It might even be the very cave used by the smuggler who had married my ancestress.

Was this why Grandma had left? Because her father was smuggling booze—and who knew what else—into the country? Had he expected her to do the same? Surely there was some record of this cave in some archive, somewhere.

I needed a computer with internet access and went to see if Ben had one.

“Come on Kelvin. We’ll come back later.”

*
 
*
 
*

“I can do you one better, if it’s information on whisky smuggling that you want,” Ben said enthusiastically when I explained my desire for a computer, though not about the sea cave and its booty. I had decided to hold that back for the time being. “As I told you, I’ve been doing research on smuggling and have pretty much read everything in the historical society archives. Uh—you don’t mind a lecture? It would be faster than having you read my notes.”

“Please feel free to core dump. Tell me all about bootlegging.”

“You know not what you ask,” he said with a grin that was positively boyish. “In the old days, rum-running—bootlegging—was about breaking the laws of prohibition in the U.S. And it still is, at least in as much as certain types of alcohol are still prohibited from legitimate trade, though alcohol consumption is allowed in most places. Then, as now, one of the main places where alcohol was smuggled from was Canada.”

I nodded.

“I have a theory that these islands were used as a kind of base of operations because of their territory being in dispute. In fact, after I read about your piratical ancestor I decided to buy the house here. It’s a great place for writing undisturbed.” He cleared his throat and waited. I couldn’t think what to say but nodded encouragingly.

“I can see that.”

“Okay. As a for instance, small amounts of Canadian whisky could be legally brought into the coast guard and menial staff who manned the lighthouse. And once the ship was here, other cargo could be conveniently unloaded under the cover of night.”

Ben gestured me into a chair beside his desk. It was a bit tatty but very comfortable.

“These rum-runners were an ingenious bunch. There was one smuggler who installed fish pens in the bottom of his ship to carry as much liquor as possible. He would put in at Goose Haven, making a legitimate delivery of fish, but then would leave a huge shipment somewhere on the islands to be picked up by land-smugglers when they came to buy fish or clams or whatever. They probably picked rainy nights so there would be fewer witnesses. A little rain wouldn’t deter these guys.” I nodded again. “Land-runners from the mainland would then come and retrieve supplies at the port and smuggle them deeper into the United States. I haven’t figured out who was behind it—the money guys, I mean. But I can make some guesses.”

He was the most animated I had ever seen him.

“Do you think that could be going on today?” I asked. “I mean, prohibition is over, so why take the risk?”

“I know it’s going on today, though cigarettes and marijuana are the bigger illegal imports.”

“Why? I mean why
smuggle booze
?” I insisted, not wanting to get off topic. “Is there still money in it?”

“Probably.
Where there is demand there will be supply.”

“But is there demand?”

“Of course.
Canadian whisky is an indigenous product to Canada that, while satisfying all the laws of Canadian manufacture, does not meet U.S. standards for rye whiskey.” I must have looked blank because he went on more slowly. “
It is a common misconception that Canadian whiskies are primarily made using rye. Mostly they are made with corn. In their defense, they are all aged at least three years. There is no requirement for aging in the U.S., so one can argue about which is the better product. But that is an aesthetic rather than a legal distinction.”

“Wait. Canadian rye whisky isn’t made with rye—it’s made with corn? And this is considered bad?”

“Mostly correct.
The use of rye grain is not dictated by law in Canada, and whisky products of all grain types are often generically referred to as ‘rye whisky.’ The U.S. objects to this designation as misleading however and has strict laws about how much rye must be used in a blended whiskey.”

“Okay. I suppose it really makes a difference in the flavor and people get to
liking
a particular kind of drink?” I thought of friends who liked Coke but wouldn’t touch Pepsi.

“Yes. And the cost varies, of course, but Canadian whisky is usually cheaper than its American counterpart. Let me demonstrate the differences. That’s the best way to understand.” Ben went to a cupboard and got out four short glasses. This was followed by four bottles of varying shape and color. “I am going to pour you some whiskies. One is Canadian, one is a United States rye whiskey, one is Scottish, and one is Irish whiskey—that is spelled with an e-y, by the way. The Irish and Scottish whiskies taste substantially different. They are the parent drink though, so one should know about them.”

I tried not to grimace. I was ignorant about whisky because I didn’t like it at all, but I didn’t want to stifle Ben’s ever-growing enthusiasm and steady flow of information.

“The Irish whiskey first,” he said handing me a glass with a very small amount in the bottom. Obviously he was serious about this being a taste and nothing more. “This is a single malt whiskey and has been distilled three times. It’s very smooth.”

I sniffed it. Whiskey, kind of like what I had smelled in the tunnel. I forced myself to take a sip and was pleasantly surprised. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t feel as though my teeth had been etched with acid.

“Not bad,” I said and got an approving smile.