1957 Somewhere in England
“My name,” said Mallory Pendragon, “is not Mallory Pendragon.”
“One assumes,” I replied.
He seated himself beside me on the cold, filthy stone floor of our prison. I peered at him through the gloom, and had an impression of light hair, light eyes, sufficient height and useful breadth.
He sounded about my age—too young to have seen military action, too old not to be discontented with that. The accent was definitely and surprisingly public school. Were they nabbing them off university grounds now?
For a moment we listened to the wind whistling eerily through the narrow slit high overhead. The opening was angled to allow a single shaft of gray light to illuminate the drifting specks of moisture. Somewhere beneath us the cliffs shuddered in the ghostly rumble of the ocean’s crash. I closed my eyes. I did not feel very well.
“My real name,” said Mallory Pendragon, “is Morgan Jones.”
“Very well.”
“It is,” he insisted. “Some people really are named Jones, you know.”
I opened my eyes. “Oh, I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,” I assured him. “What time is it? Do you have any idea?”
“No. I lost my watch in the scuffle. The first scuffle. It’s daylight though. So.”
“Your gift of observation is extraordinary.”
“You arrived last night, which was certainly several hours ago.”
“I see.” I didn’t of course.
His broad shoulder bumped comfortably against mine, and I can’t deny that while I didn’t imagine he would be of any practical use—these big brawny types are usually only useful for one thing—I was glad not to be alone in my current circumstances. I shivered. The air was cold and damp. I could smell the sea beneath an odd metallic tang in the air.
“Tell me,” Jones inquired after a short silence, “what brought you to this sorry state?”
I sighed. “I answered a want ad.”
“Ah.” Jones was sympathetic. “PG Wodehouse. Agatha Christie. Edgar Wallace. They do set one up for this kind of thing. What sort of line had it: ‘Handsome, adventurous young gentleman needed for mysterious venture?’”
“Something of the sort,” I admitted grudgingly.
“Well, you’ve done very well for a beginner,” he comforted. “Who hired you?”
“Mr. Bennett.”
He thought it over. “Never heard of him. Not that it matters. He’s undoubtedly using a false name. Everyone is, so far as I can see.”
I asked, “No offense, but do you do this sort of thing professionally?”
“Skullduggery, you mean? No. And yes. Professionally I am a student of archeology. You can see my point, I’m sure.”
“Actually, no.”
He peered at my face through the gloom. “No?”
I shook my head.
“Well, skip it. What matters now is our getting out of here.”
I rested my head on my knees, muttered, “It seems unlikely at this juncture.”
“What? Nonsense.” Into my silence he said almost kindly, “I thought you Yanks were all about ingenuity and optimism and go-get-’em-ness?”
I raised my head and glared, though it was doubtful he could see my expression any more than I could see his. “We’re locked in the dungeon of a medieval castle on the coast of Devonshire. The ocean is below us. Dangerous criminals are above us. Neither of us, presumably, is armed. I see no way out of this predicament.”
He said bracingly, “It wants a little endeavor, is all.”
“It wants a little more than that.”
He seemed to hesitate before saying, “The thing is, old chap, if we don’t get ourselves out of here, and soon, I believe we will not leave this place alive.”
I tried again to read his features beyond the gleam of his eyes. “That would seem to be a-a rather excessive response.”
“My dear Mr. Caldwell—if that is your name—surely you don’t imagine they’re going to let us go? Knowing what we know?”
“I’m not sure we kn—”
“Or at least what they think we know.”
I suggested, “Or what we think we know?”
“Exactly. Consider. These are respectable people. They dread the whisper of scandal as their ancestors feared the drift of plague. Therefore, they cannot afford to let us go.”
I saw his logic at once.
“Do you have a plan?”
“I always have a plan,” Morgan Jones assured me. He got to his feet—there did seem to be rather a lot of him—and offered his hand in an incongruously courteous gesture. His warm grip was reassuringly firm as he helped me to my feet. I had to steady myself on the nearest wall. It was slimy and I hastily wiped my hand on my trousers.
Jones studied me—well, my shadow, I suppose—critically. “How far did you get before they caught you?”.
“Almost to the front gates. They’re kept locked, but I knew I could climb over. Unfortunately, they had the cars.”
“Have you strength to do it again? Naturally, I don’t want to leave you here—unless circumstances press.”
“I can do it again,” I said grimly.
“Good, good.” He moved out of the murky light filtering through the narrow opening above us into the cell’s dark and musty heart.
“What is this plan of yours?” I asked.
“I’ll begin with breaking down this door. Be a good fellow and position yourself at that door and listen for anyone coming.”
“What door?” I asked blankly.
“You can’t see it in this light, but there’s a door on the south wall. Several feet to your left.”
I peered doubtfully into the gloom. “What? Why would there be?”
“I imagine the second door opens into a smaller outer holding space or guard area; which means this door likely opens into the corridor.” He added thoughtfully, “Unless I’ve got it backward.”
“That can’t be right.”
He brightened. “True. I’m rarely wrong about these things.”
“I mean what sort of dungeon—” I gave it up. What did it matter? It wasn’t as though I had a better plan. Or any plan.
“You’re a student of architecture?” Jones inquired.
“Me? No. My field is antiquities.”
“I see.” Jones spoke in that kindly Oxford don sort of tone that made one want to hit him with the nearest cricket bat, “You’re no doubt thinking of this structure as a purpose-built storybook dungeon. In fact, we’re in what now amounts to the undercroft of the manor house. The original dungeons were undoubtedly repurposed numerous times over the centuries: prison, storage, servants’ passage, smuggling route, wine cellar, wartime shelter, etc., etc.”
“I truly don’t care.”
“No?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
“Just break down the damned door if you’re going to.”
Jones seemed to recall himself. “You’re quite right, Caldwell. Let us proceed with the first phase of our plan of escape.” He moved away into the deeper shade.
I didn’t have a lot of hope that Jones would actually succeed in battering down the door to our cell. I had firsthand knowledge of how sturdy were the doors of the manor house proper. Sturdy and impenetrable.
However, I had underestimated both the strength and determination of my companion.
Jones tackled the door with the cheery brutality of Hercules storming the Trojan ramparts. I doubted anyone in the structure above us could hear anything occurring in the dungeons, but the shrieking of splintering wood and groaning of rust-frozen hinges were not easy on one’s nerves.
I leaned against the unpleasant wall and waited without much hope.
All at once there was a tremendous tearing sound and a crash. I jumped, realizing that I’d been on the verge of dozing off.
“There we go,” said Jones in a satisfied tone. I could hear the businesslike brush of his hands. “Come along, Caldwell, we’ve no time to waste.”
He loomed out of the gloom, taking my arm, and guiding me across the uneven floor and over the fallen door.
We came to an abrupt halt. Judging by the watery light filtering through the narrow, horizontal slit in the wall just above Jones’ head, our great escape had landed us in another cell.
“Well done,” I said. “I suppose we now go from chamber to chamber, breaking down doors until we reach the last?”
“I fear you’re of a rather censorious disposition, Caldwell.”
I sniffed irritably.
“Perhaps it’s that wallop on the head. You do have quite a knot on the back of your skull.” Jones let go of me, advanced upon the door. I gingerly felt the back of my head, wincing as my fingers located a large patch of unpleasant stickiness—as well as a considerable lump. I understood why the odd metallic odor I’d noticed earlier still lingered. Blood. My blood.
Jones grabbed the door handle and dragged on it. The door scraped open a couple of grudging inches and then the handle snapped off.
“Blast.” Jones threw the handle aside. It clanged noisily against stone. He grabbed the edge of the door and wrenched it toward us another few inches. “See if you can wriggle through.”
We switched places and with determination verging on desperation, I tried to squeeze through. Two of the brass buttons on my waist-length jacket ripped off and pinged against the stones, and for one terrifying moment, I feared I was stuck. With some desperate maneuvering I managed to shove through. I stumbled free.
“Halfway home. Now try to move the door from your side,” Jones instructed.
Rather a trusting disposition, Jones. Knowing the stakes as he must, did he believe it never occurred to me that the fewer competitors the better?
Or did he imagine I needed his help to make my escape?
I was still considering this as I put my shoulder to the door and shoved. Hard.
Nothing happened.
I began to swear quietly, pushing with all my might. I could hear the blood drumming in my ears—and more distantly Jones offering encouragement. Or, given that it was Jones, possibly advice.
I had to stop, panting.
“Just about there,” Jones urged.
I shook my head, wiped my forehead on my shoulder, put my back to the door and dug in my heels.
Not that so much digging is possible on a stone floor.
Just as I was starting to think it was a lost cause, the door shifted beneath me and I heard Jones’s exclamation. He managed to wedge himself through the narrow opening as I slid down the rough surface of the door.
From somewhere overhead Jones was saying, “In my experience this variety of thug always lack imagination—not that they intended leaving us here for more than a few hours.”
“No.”
“Long enough, of course, when one has a plan.”
He had a nerve-edging habit of speaking in an almost normal tone of voice. Even if they couldn’t hear us abovestairs, supposed they’d left a guard?
Would they though?
“Perhaps their plans were interrupted,” I said.
“That’s very possible.” He offered his hand again. “We should go.”
It was harder to get to my feet that time.
Jones led the way—happily we were not in yet another cell—in fact, we came to a stop in a long, narrow passageway lit only by a paraffin lantern hanging from an iron hook left for our captors’ convenience. The feeble flame shivered in the draft.
Jones said with sudden seriousness, “As our survival may well depend on next actions, we must have a vote.”
I turned and got my first good look at him. Jones was of an imposing height with shoulders like a rugby player—and hands the size of rugby mitts. His hair was an indeterminate beige. Ash? His eyes, even in this dubious light, were bright and very blue. They studied me with lively curiosity and I realized he was waiting for an answer.
What was the question?
Oh. Right. Our survival.
I said automatically, “Very well.”
“I believe there are two options open to us. We can go this way”—he pointed to the left— “which heads upstairs. Upstairs we know where we’re at. Of course, it’s also where they’re at. Or, we can continue down into the older part of the structure.”
I didn’t like either option and had no response.
Jones indicated the damp, black corridor breathing moistly down the back of our necks. “I haven’t been down there. I know nothing beyond what can be deduced from a rudimentary knowledge of 13th Century Norman keeps. What I do know with certainty is that our captors are not down there. We might get out—there must be some sort of exit down there—but we might wind up cornered and trapped.”
I considered. Due to piracy, defensive towers were common on this part of the coast from Norman through late medieval periods. Many 17th century houses such as Black Tor were built on stone foundations of older fortifications, sometimes retaining crypts, dungeons, and service tunnels. Additionally, hidden water passages, cisterns, and drainage channels were practical for cliffside estates, so Jones’ hypothesis of a potential escape route was possible. We might even discover a sea gate.
It was also possible that all of these things might exist but prove impossible to access.
Jones waited for me to make my mind up.
I said, “I’m willing to chance it. Better that than—”
“Certain death?” he suggested. “I do so agree. There are too many of them and they all seem to have guns. I’d rather face the unknown. And there’s always the chance they might not look for us down there.”
I made a sound of disbelief. “They can hardly miss our footprints in the dust or whatever that layer of filth consists of. It’s an inch thick.”
Jones’ shadow, melting into the darkness ahead of us, threw back a cheerful, “They might. One can always hope.”
I spluttered at this unwarranted optimism, but followed him down the stone-vaulted passageway. It was a cold, cramped, damp, and uneven underfoot—and seemed to go on for miles. Eventually, the floor sloped slightly. Somewhere below us, water moved with a slow, secret sound.
Abruptly we hit a wall.
Literally.
“Ouch.” Jones rocked to a stop.
Disconcertingly I found myself lodged against his backside, hips pressed to his buttocks. The soft ends of his hair tickled my face.
“Ow.” I took a hasty step back. “Sorry!”
Jones murmured something, flicked on his lighter and held it aloft.
We were in a low stone chamber, obviously older than the passage outside, its walls sweating with damp and furred here and there with pale mineral bloom. The place smelled of wet stone, salt, and ancient wood.
Jones located a candle stub in a wall sconce and after several tries managed to light it. The thin light wavered uncertainly, feebly pushing at the darkness.
In the center of the chamber squatted a round wooden structure, like an enormous cup turned upside down: blackened oak, iron-banded, swollen with age and sea-damp. The candlelight slid over it in uncertain yellow flashes, catching on rusted nail heads, on puddles between the flagstones, on the slick green shine of moss in the seams of the wall.
I realized the wooden “cup” was really a circular, domed lid of thick oak, reinforced with iron bands.
“A cistern.” I had not truly expected to find it—nor was I sure this was any real solution.
Jones, unsurprisingly, seemed to think otherwise. “Just as I thought,” he said with satisfaction. He approached the wooden structure. The iron straps had rusted, binding to the frame. Jones circled it from the left, circled it from the right, and then thumped on the curved surface, which reverberated hollowly.
I was uncertain as to whether he was about to engage in a wrestling match or play the thing like a drum.
Jones crouched, bracing his feet against the floor, and set his hands on the edges. He rocked it slowly, then slammed his shoulder against it once, twice, until it groaned in protest. I leaped to assist, groping blindly until my fingers found purchase under the warped rim. Together, we lifted the cup. It was even heavier than it looked, and it went through my mind that perhaps the stone and damp had somehow fused with the wood over time.
Jones swore quietly. I gasped and gulped. The lid slid a few inches, caught, then finally slid a few inches with a horrendous scrape that bounced off the surrounding stone.
We had a partial view of the deep shaft. A damp and deathly smell rose from its Stygian depths. I thought I could just make out the wet gleam of iron rungs embedded in the wall leading down into the shadows. It looked unhealthy at best.
“I’m not so sure about this,” I said uneasily.
“Do you have a problem with heights?”
“Wouldn’t it be a problem with depths?”
Jones grinned. The wide white brightness of that smile caught me by surprise. “True.”
We both jumped as the distant sound of voices reached us—that particular note of urgency is never a welcome sign.
“Hell,” I said. “They know we’ve escaped.”
Escaped was perhaps optimistic.
“Very likely.” Jones attacked the lid with renewed vigor.
I joined him in his efforts, pushing and prying, feeling splinters rake my hands, tearing my nails as I tried to find some kind of purchase that would not end with my fingers being crushed.
“Pendragon! Caldwell! We know you’re in there,” yelled Carlton Jervis from an echoing distance. Given the confusing acoustics of these tunnels, it was hard to be certain of that distance.
“Then why are you yelling?” inquired Jones of no one in particular. The lid gave a tremendous groan and slid a few vital inches aside.
“They’re down here,” yelled Jervis, and it seemed to me that his voice was suddenly, alarmingly close. I risked a look over my shoulder, and saw an ominous bright flash from down the tunnel.
