The next possibility was the baptismal font. That was immediately behind the pulpit, off to the right. It was made entirely of stone and resembled a crude birdbath, certainly nowhere to hide anything there. Likewise, the well. Once again, it looked like a stalemate.
Kingston stood next to the pulpit thinking back to the meeting with Chadwick. Perhaps not telling Chadwick and Jamie about the chapel and the underground rooms might have been a mistake on his part. He knew damned well why he hadn’t. First and foremost, he wanted to impress and surprise Jamie with the discovery—if it happened, that is. And second, he didn’t want Chadwick to step in just yet and shove him aside, which he knew was exactly what would happen. Regardless of what took place from now on, he would tell Jamie everything that he’d been up to. Then she could decide what she wanted to do about it, which, ironically, would probably be to involve the police.
Forgetting all this, calmed by the solemn quiet, he let his eyes wander round the chapel. The all too familiar unadorned plaster walls, the stern pews, the ancient well that had surrendered its grisly contents. How many sermons had been voiced from the simple pulpit, he wondered? Was it just the family and staff at Wickersham who filled the pews? Or were the local parishioners included? How many generations had shuffled through these dark oaken doors to celebrate the joyous moments of their lives or salve their guilt?
He inhaled deeply, rubbed his brow and sighed. That was it, then. The monks of Wickersham Priory had won. Either that or he’d been wrong all along. He took one last look around the chapel, then hoisted up the tool bag from the floor by the pulpit. As he turned to leave, the back of the bag banged against the front of the pulpit. It was no more than a light knock—caused by one of the heavier tools, the hammer or the flashlight—but it was enough to give him pause and stop. There was something about it that hadn’t sounded right. Lowering the bag to the ground, he stooped and knocked three times with his knuckle on the same spot. It was a hollow sound. Not unexpected because the pulpit itself was nothing more than a vertical box enclosed on three sides. But it didn’t sound right. It was what? Too hollow a sound?
He let go of the bag and stood for a moment examining the front of the pulpit. Then he went round to the back and positioned himself where the vicar or priest would have stood to address his small flock. With his hands resting on either side of the pulpit, like a prisoner in a dock pleading his innocence, he stared out to the empty pews. Then he looked down to the place where the bible or scriptures would be. Then he got it.
Inside the pulpit, his knees were barely three inches from the wood panel. Yet looking down from his height, he could see that the front of the pulpit extended several inches beyond that. Why on earth hadn’t he thought of it before? In the old days, bookcases were often constructed that way. Shelving on the front of the case and behind it a hidden space of several inches, neatly concealed, usually by a self-locking hinged back. The optical illusion was almost impossible to spot. Only the most perceptive eye would notice that the side dimension was somewhat deeper than that suggested by the front view where the books backed up to the rear panel. In fact, with books filling the shelves, it was almost impossible to tell that there was a false back to the case.
Now on his hands and knees, inside the pulpit, Kingston traced the panel in front of him with the tips of his fingers. If he was right—and he was now certain that he was—there was a way of removing or swinging out the inner panel. The carpenter who had crafted the pulpit had been skilled in cabinet making because all edges of the panel were perfectly butted against those on the three sides and the underside of the lectern. Barely a hair’s breadth separated them. How did it work? There were no hinges or spaces where a finger could be inserted under the panel. It had to work with pressure, he figured. He placed his hands squarely on the centre of the panel and pushed. Nothing happened. He tried doing the same thing to the base of the panel, the sides and the top centre of the panel, all with no success.
He stood and stepped back for a moment. If he had constructed the pulpit, where would he have positioned the opening device? Certainly not at the bottom because that could easily be kicked, as it doubtlessly was over many decades. Same with the centre of the panel, where a heavy person’s knee could accidentally bump into it. It had to be located somewhere at the very top, underneath the lectern. But there was no space underneath. The sloping top was a solid piece of oak.
On his haunches, Kingston eyed the smooth panel facing him. It was almost as if it was taunting him. He took his time, placing his left-hand thumb on the top left corner. Then he did the same with his right-hand thumb on the opposite corner, careful to line it up at the same level. He leaned forward and applied equal pressure with both thumbs. ‘Damn,’he muttered. Leaving his thumbs in place, he relaxed for a moment and this time pushed much harder. A small click and the panel fell forward resting on his hands. ‘Gotcha!’ he said.