He had an idea that sleepwalkers should not be woken abruptly, so he remained where he was in the window recess, and waited. Luisa crossed the hall. She was dressed as she had been earlier in the evening – the plain dress with the woollen shawl held in place by a silver brooch. No ethereal, floating draperies for this one, thought Michael. Unseeing, unhearing, Luisa unhooked the chain across the door, then reached for the two bolts on the front door, and drew them back. There was a soft scrape of sound, and then the groan of the hinges as the door opened slightly. Night air, cold and rain sodden, gusted in, spattering moisture on the oak blocks of the floor. The dark shapes of the old trees lay across the oak, and for a moment Michael thought they formed into the outline of a man standing in the doorway. Then it was gone. Luisa closed the door, slid the bolts back, and replaced the security chain.
She’s let him in, thought Michael. She heard him trying to get in, and she’s opened the door to him. There was no one there, but Luisa thought there was, and she thinks she let him. In a minute she’ll go quietly back up to bed.
But Luisa did not. She went to a small bureau in a corner of the hall and from a drawer took what Michael, narrowing his eyes in the uncertain light, saw was a key. Still moving slowly, Luisa went to a section of the panelling, and Michael saw for the first time that a small door was set into the wood: not a concealed or a secret door, simply a door that was so much part of the wood that it was almost unnoticeable. Luisa unlocked it, pushed it open and stepped through.
Michael stared at the dark oblong. He was uncertain what he should do, but perhaps he ought to make sure Luisa was all right before going back to bed.
The door in the panelling was slightly ajar; beyond it was a flight of stone steps, in semi-darkness. Of course there would be shadowy stone steps, thought Michael, wryly. What else is ever behind a low door in a wall? Do I go down those steps? Oh hell, why not? All he wanted to do was make sure there was nothing down there that might pose a threat. Like the shadowy figure of a man with a blown-leaf scar …?
The steps looked old – certainly as old as the house, if not older. They were slightly worn at the centre, and Michael was irresistibly reminded of the steps in Ayesha’s temple, in Rider Haggard’s She, worn by the constant use of one person only – the immortal Egyptian Queen who had walked up and down them for two thousand years.
He stepped through the doorway, expecting to be met by chill dankness, but although it was noticeably cooler, there were no scents of mould or packed-earth floors.
A thick stone wall enclosed the steps, but as he went down they opened up, giving a clear view of an underground room at the foot. And after all that it was a perfectly ordinary cellar, of the kind that most houses of a certain age had. There was a stone floor and plain, whitewashed walls. Massive timber joists and thick pillars appeared to underpin the floors above, and seeing them, Michael had a sensation of oppression from the rooms and walls directly overhead.
It was fairly dim in the cellar, but there was enough light from somewhere to see that Luisa was kneeling at what, after a moment, Michael recognized as a prie-dieu – a prayer desk, generally found in private houses for devotional use. In front of 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. Luisa’s 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 house’s past – 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 priests’ 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 – again it was the classic gesture before an altar – 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 Luisa’s 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.