From that first rush of excitement and trepidation, when he had stepped into the dark unknown of the catacombs, until now, Kingston had forgotten his principal goal: to find Ryder’s secret hiding place—the room or vault where he stored the paintings that were shipped from France. Now he was experiencing a sinking feeling at the prospect of having to face up to the bitter disappointment of discovering that, after coming this far, there was no such place. That he’d been wrong about Ryder all along. How many rooms were still unexplored? There was no way of knowing. But at least there were some. So there was hope yet. If one of his earlier theories held water, then there could well be a good reason for his not having uncovered anything so far.
When all else failed, Kingston fell back on what he called his ‘crossword puzzle logic’—teasing answers from confusing and complicated clues. His fundamental premise was that, once, there had been two ways of entering the catacombs: one through the chapel, the other from somewhere in the house. He had searched the house but that proved little. Knowing, now, how cleverly the chapel entrance was designed, he would have been surprised if he had found anything. His conclusion was that a secret entrance via the house still existed, or it had long since been sealed and—unless the house was dismantled piece by piece—would be all but impossible to find now. If the latter were true, then it would suggest that, at one point during his days at Wickersham, Ryder might have given up trading in art. He could have had a falling out with Girard; the market in high-priced paintings had crashed in the early nineties and values had decreased by as much as half at some auctions. Another likelihood: with all the recent publicity and attention focused on stolen art, it became too risky a venture. He could think of many reasons for Ryder having gone straight.
Given these presuppositions it was not surprising he had found nothing yet that resembled a secret storage area. If such a place existed, it would probably be closer to the house than the chapel. Sound or not, this conclusion bolstered his optimism as he found his way back to the chapel. He reminded himself to bring a compass on his next visit.
Kingston lowered the pew and watched it drop back into place with a dull clank. For a few seconds, he stood and stared, admiring its simplicity. Considering its age, it was a remarkable piece of engineering. He went to the pulpit and returned the panel to its original position, concealing the release latch. Picking up his tool bag, he started up the aisle. At the door, he stopped. It was … open. He stood for a moment looking around the interior, certain that he had closed the door when he first arrived at the chapel. He even remembered wondering whether he should lock it or not. And just before stepping down into the catacombs, he had checked it again, to make sure. Someone had been there. And that someone now knew the secret of the chapel.
Back at the cottage, Kingston picked up the phone and called Jamie. For the next several minutes he told her about his discovery, describing precisely how he had found the hidden latch, about the pew, and what the catacombs were like. After he was finished, she congratulated him, offering a thin apology for doubting him. She wanted him to take her there that very minute, but Kingston managed to dissuade her using the late hour and absence of lighting as an excuse. They agreed to meet at eight thirty in the morning, giving him time to rig up temporary lighting and be better equipped to explore. Kingston waited till the end of the conversation to ask the all-important question.
‘Was anyone looking for me this afternoon, after I left you? Anyone come to the house?’
She paused before answering. ‘Only Roger Ferguson.’
‘Ferguson?’
‘Yes. He came back to get his camera. He’d left it on the coffee table. The thing’s so tiny, I’m not surprised, he should have kept it in his pocket.’
‘Did he leave right away?’
‘What are you getting at, Lawrence? Yes, I suppose he left right away. I didn’t look out of the window to see if he drove off, if that’s what you mean.’ She paused. ‘Why, is it important?’
‘I don’t know, it could be. It’s just that I believe there was someone in the chapel while I was down below.’
Unlike the gloomy day before, it was a sparkling morning when Kingston left the cottage at eight o’clock on Tuesday. Despite the prospect of a warm day, he wore his old wax jacket over a wool turtleneck knowing how cool it was down in the catacombs. He had told Jamie to dress warmly, too.
Walking up the path to the house he stopped and bent down to study the leaves of the yellow Alchemilla mollis that spilled over the gravel. Each leaf resembled a delicate bone china cup, filled with a teaspoon of rainwater. The sight never failed to stop him in his tracks, in awe and joy at this sculpture of nature.