"Here goes," I said softly as I pressed into the scratchy boughs. It was just one layer of branches filling in the opening to this little grove. Kathryn was right behind me. We stumbled into the open s.p.a.ce just as the clouds parted and the crescent moon made another appearance.

There in the middle of the clearing was a lyrical statue of the same white marble from which the others had been carved.

"Oh my," exclaimed Kathryn. "Who is it?

"It's not Evangeline Fen," I said immediately. In many ways I was far more drawn to this figure than that of Evangeline. It was a 19th century woman, but she was a woman with a purpose. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair was pulled back into an efficient bun with stray strands across her forehead and curling around her ears. She was crouching on one knee, a cold chisel was carved into the marble at her knees, she had a mallet in her hand, and she was wearing a smock. Her other hand was raised in a welcoming gesture and her head was c.o.c.ked to one side. Her expression was hard to read because the flashlight beam flattened her features, but there was an amused devilish quality to it. In fact, the loose hair strands popped up hornlike which gave her expression a demonic flavor.

"I know who it is. It's Victoria." I stared at her, shining the light all over the form. "She's hiding in these ancient yews, watching over her work." I knew it, sure as I know how it feels to be an artist who had to part with her best pieces.

"Are you sure? Is it signed?" Kathryn went closer to scan the base for some kind of signature. "There's some lettering here but I can't quite read it. Let me have the flash." She reached back for it.

Kathryn crouched at the base of the three-quarter-sized statue. In a low voice she said, "It's too long to be a signature. Oh, there, it says: "MAN MAY ONLY CHASE THE DEMON MESSENGERS OF GRIEF WITH UNBOUND CHARITY."

Kathryn stood, using the light to view the form again. She whispered, "Her arms are very strong. Not a beautiful face, I think, but she has character. And," she flashed the light lower, "an ample bosom. It's Victoria Snow alright."

"It's hard to make a self portrait beautiful," I said from experience. "Well Gauguin did, and maybe Rembrandt when he was young, but most artists don't try to. Frieda Kahlo made herself ugly."

We walked around the statue of Victoria Willomere Snow and all her serious worker-like presence and went to the crypt behind her. I peered in, expecting to find the same square room with a low ceiling and stone coffin as the others, but I was surprised. The room was wider and less deep. The coffin lay perpendicular to the door and just a few feet out from the back wall. There were two cement angels on pedestals guarding the coffin, one attached to the wall on the right and one on the left.

"People have been in here," said Kathryn, following the beam as it swept over the floor. "I guess these footprints could be decades old. If there was nothing to disturb them."

I didn't say anything. Footprints are evidence. There was a set of handprints too. They were near the coffin. Two hands about eighteen inches apart with the finger pointing at us. I went closer and shone the light along that spot. Then I turned and faced Kathryn.

"What?" she said.

"Well, I don't get how these could be here. The position of these hands is so unlikely." I looked at them again. Kathryn came to my side.

"I see," she said.

"And look at the footprints," I went on, "They come in and go out, but they don't really turn around. Maybe..." I pushed on the lid of the coffin with one hand and felt the solid immovable weight of a thousand pounds of marble.

"Oh, really that would be too fantastic," said Kathryn.

I didn't answer. I played the light over the floor again, following the footprints that seemed to step to the right and then back to the center. I scanned the angel on the right. She had a st.u.r.dy posture, as though braced to fight anyone who got in her way. And her face was dirty. I flashed the left one. Her face was clean. I moved to the right and reached up. I pushed on the dirty face of the angel and she tilted back an inch. I handed the flashlight to Kathryn and used both hands to push the angel harder. She tipped backwards, leaning the entire pedestal with her as though there was a counter weight below the floor. At the same time, the coffin made a grinding noise and then with a low rumbling moan it slid back to reveal a large opening in the floor.

Chapter 16.

"Oh for heavens sakes, Maggie, this is like a Nancy Drew Mystery!

The Secret of the Old Crypt," said Kathryn incredulously.

"If the frock fits."

"Does this kind of thing happen to you all the time?"

"In a word, no. Most of the things I do job-wise are about as boring as being on hold for tech support. But this particular adventure seems to be afoot, literally. Are you game?" I asked, stepping into the opening. It was the beginning of a steep ramp that angled into the darkness below.

"Certainly I'm game. I wouldn't miss this. But why on earth would this hole be here?" she asked.

"Um, maybe Underground Railroad? There were other tunnels in the Valley. Fenchester was a stop for runaway slaves. The area was full of Quakers in those days. That might explain it. Not sure if this crypt was built that early though. And this system"-I glanced back at the now fallen angel-"seems like a cross between Harry Potter and a gothic romance."

"Could it be a prohibition tunnel?"

"Could be both. The tunnel could have been here to help slaves and then the crypt was built over it to make it more secure to run liquor."

Kathryn arranged her scarf and tugged her gloves on tighter.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Farrel would never go down there."

"Why? Is Farrel afraid of the dark?" asked Kathryn, following me.

"No, no, she has an irrational fear of rodents, and under a graveyard would be a prime hangout for them. Especially if this connects to any old sewer lines. How do you feel about that? Do you have any irrational fears?" I asked, stepping carefully into the darkness.

"I'm not sure this is the perfect moment to discuss my innermost fears, irrational or otherwise. For now let me just say, I'm not wild about snakes, though not irrationally so, and heights are often the subject of my bad dreams. I can handle most other tangible things. We'll discuss the intangible fears another time over wine or something, shall we?"

"OK then, let's have at it. If you get scared, just pretend it's a nightmare," I suggested.

Kathryn seemed remarkably amused considering we were probing a dark pa.s.sage under a coffin. This was an interesting thing to find out about her. Kind of a thrill in itself.

Focus on the task at hand, I told myself.

We edged along the incline slowly until the stone ramp leveled out. There was a large oak lever there. I pulled it. It rattled and moaned and moved the coffin back in place. My flashlight showed a pa.s.sage ahead that went east and one behind us to the west.

The floor of the pa.s.sageway was rough stone. The walls were packed earth. I stood still and listened. It was oppressively quiet. I took off my backpack and fished out my little compa.s.s. I wanted to know exactly where we were going, so we could be sure to find our way back out. It was a little warmer down here; there was air movement but no breeze and no feeling of frost. Just that constant sixty-degree temperature you read about in heat pump ads.

This was how the shooter had gotten out of the cemetery without being spotted by me or the police. I was mildly glad that was cleared up, but I was far more concerned that a person with a gun had access to this tunnel and might even be down here with us. Though why someone like that would stick around I couldn't imagine. Even if there were valuable antiques down here, the shooter was now facing a murder charge.

On a hunch, I took out my phone and redialed Samson Henshaw's number. A note of ring tone made us both jump. A light flickered on the tunnel floor and went out. Samson's phone was right at our feet. I picked it up.

"Well, that clears up that mystery," said Kathryn.

"Some of it, but the Where's Samson? part is still wide open." And that worried me.

We made our way along the eastern pa.s.sage that angled downhill. In about fifty yards the relatively narrow pa.s.sage T-boned into a larger tunnel that had a fitted cobblestone floor, walls, and ceiling. In the larger tunnel were cracked pipes made of molded clay running along the wall. I shined the light around, then looked at the compa.s.s.

"We must be under 10th Street now," said Kathryn. "I guess this access was built when they fitted all the houses with gas lighting. These look like very old gas pipes. Or do you think this was the sewer main?" she asked.

"The sewer pipes are at the backs of the houses. But at one time the Mews was at the back of the big stately homes. I guess it might have been the sewer then and they refitted it for gas at the turn of the century. I think we're below the contemporary water and gas lines now." I took out my phone. Apparently the streets of this part of Fenchester were made of kryptonite, because I had zero bars.

"Kind of creepy down here," said Kathryn softly.

I couldn't have agreed more, but I was trying to act tough. So I just nodded in the dark. Kathryn took out her phone to use as a flashlight. Then she sniffed. "It must have been very unpleasant smelling back in the days after it was built."

"Of course in those days, when horses were the mode of transportation, the streets stank of horse s.h.i.t and most people still used chamber pots that they emptied into the gutters each morning. So maybe those who had to work down here didn't notice it as much," I said.

"It doesn't smell bad now, though," she sniffed again. "It smells like..."

"Lavender."

"Yes. How could that be?" she asked.

"I don't know. If this were a fiction novel, it would be a plot point. But maybe we just stepped on some dried lavender bushes outside the crypt and because there's no breeze we can smell it now?"

"Or maybe Evangeline Fen's ghost is lurking here in the dark. Now that you see ghosts we should consider..."

"Let's not consider that right now," I said.

Kathryn snorted.

We headed right, toward the Mews. It felt as though we'd gone about half a block when Kathryn said, "There are steps up there to the left." When we got a little closer, she said, "When is a door not a door?"

"When it's ajar," I answered.

Three stone steps led up to a heavy wooden door that was open a few inches. The k.n.o.b was big and old-fashioned, like Alice's after she shrank.

"Where are we?" asked Kathryn. "I've lost my bearings."

"Still under 10th. I'd guess the middle of the 500 block.

The door swung out and we climbed a steep staircase. On a landing at the top of the stairs was another huge oak door on strap hinges. It had a heavy wooden bar wedged through supports. The bar was held in place by an old padlock on a wrought iron hasp.

"Hmmmm," said Kathryn, touching the lock. "It's been oiled." She rubbed her fingers together.

The lock was the type that an old skeleton key would open. On a hunch I took out my keys and selected the old-fashioned bra.s.s key that went to one of locks on Farrel and Jessie's house.

"What, no utility belt?"

"Accessories do make the outfit, but I'm traveling light. I can pick locks, too." But I didn't need to; the key popped the lock in one twist.

As we slid the bar out of the supports, Kathryn said, "So this would be that breaking and entering I've heard so much about?"

"We didn't actually break anything," I said. "We're following clues."

"Lesbian College Professor Arrested in Attempted Burglary," mused Kathryn.

"Do you think they'd really say Lesbian?"

"Well, if it was Fox."

I turned the big k.n.o.b and we pushed the creaky door open to another set of stairs.

"Why are we carrying that bar up the stairs?" Kathryn asked as we reached the top.

"Because I don't want one of the undead living under the graveyard to trap us by putting the bar back in place while we're sleuthing for clues."

I swept my flashlight around and spied electric wires snaking down one of the walls to an old-fashioned light switch. I went to it and tweaked the Bakelite k.n.o.b gingerly between two fingers. I twisted it, hoping I wouldn't electrocute myself.

Light flooded the room from large clear bulbs in rows near the high ceiling. Some of the bulbs were out, but the light from the rest allowed us to see the whole room.

It was huge and had a faintly unpleasant smell. Thin horizontal windows lined the very top of the twenty-foot brick walls. On one side was a row of stacked wooden boxes.

But it was the rest of the large room that really caught my attention. It was an artist's studio. A sculptor's. And except that some of the metal tools were rusty from disuse, the place was ready to produce art.

There were five huge porcelain vats against one wall, each the size of a hot tub. Two of them had their lids pushed off to expose a vast quant.i.ty of dried clay. Clay-shaping and stone-carving tools stood ready in racks on the shelves that lined another wall. There were armatures, small wooden mannequins, and calipers of all sizes. Sketches were tacked to large bulletin boards above long tables and heavy stands.

On the wall of shelves to one side was a vast number of finished and nearly finished sculptures. Full bodies, busts, torsos, heads, studies of shape and movement, all formed of clay or carved from stone. There were mold forms and literally hundreds of clay faces decorated with sh.e.l.ls, pebbles, and other found objects.

To the left of the shelves were two narrow doors. At the back wall was a steep wooden staircase that went almost to the ceiling. I swept my flashlight beam to the top of the brick wall, but there was no door up there. The stairs ended surreally at nothing.

Also at the back wall was a refrigerator-sized block of partly carved white marble with a full set of cold chisels and several heavy wooden mallets on a table next to it. I was drawn to the stone sculpture like a pin to a magnet. A nude female form was emerging from the marble as though the stone was both giving birth to her and she was struggling to free herself from it. As though she was stepping out of a wall of churning water, her face, breast, hand, arm, knee, thigh, and hip, seemed to break through the rough surface.

Kathryn joined me as I touched the sculpted arm.

"This is Victoria's studio," whispered Kathryn.

"Certainly is. And this... this is Evangeline. Look at this. Victoria had to have loved her to make her look like this. It's like Michelangelo's Four Seasons, yet so feminine. But still strong. I bet... I bet Victoria never intended to finish it. It's a masterpiece. I could look at it all day."

We stood at the sculpture for a very long moment and finally I broke the silence. "I wonder if anyone else has ever seen this?"

Kathryn walked back to the boxes. "Well, Frankie saw it, if he was paying attention. This is where he got his merchandise. There was a another box here. See the outline of it against the wall?"

I scanned the room carefully. "And he took the sculpture and molded faces from those shelves. You know, he even had an old-fashioned house key that probably worked on the lock on the stairs."

Kathryn was drawn to a bookcase where folios of prints and drawings leaned against nine or ten books.

"Oh, look! Look, it's Victoria's other journal," said Kathryn. "See? There's a two on the cover... and here's a third one!" She pulled her gloves from her jacket pocket and lifted the journals from the shelf. "Maggie, there's no reason for me not to take these is there? I'll turn them over to the Irwin library for them to copy. I would hate to leave them here."

"I can't see any reason for you not to take them if you're turning them over to Irwin. Amanda said Victoria left everything to the college, so I suppose this all belongs to Irwin."

"My sculpture that I bought at the antique market?" Kathryn asked, taking off her scarf and wrapping it carefully around the journals to slide them into her shoulder bag.

"Probably."

"Rats."

Kathryn walked back to the boxes. "They're packed so well. Wrapped in oil cloth. Fitted joints." She glanced around at the walls. "It's fairly dry in here, though who knows how it is in the summer." She touched the very edge of a sketch pinned to the board on the wall. It didn't crack or fall away.

I was scanning the boxes. There were splinters on the floor where one had been opened and then removed.

"So, Frankie follows someone here. When they leave he sneaks in and opens a box," I said. "He had an old key that would have opened the lock, figures it's all salable, so he takes a box, grabbing a few sculptures and some of the head molds on the way out. It must have been heavy. No wonder he wanted Red to help him with the others. I wonder why only one of them was opened..."