Perhaps he was in another part of the cellars, long walled off. In that case, who had dug the hole down to them? Who had fixed the squares of dirt and grass over the openings above to hide their existence?
Ian’s fears receded as the puzzle took hold of him. Who had done this, and why? And where exactly was he?
How Ian would get out did not worry him as much. He’d find a way, even if he simply had to climb back up the wall. Also, those looking for him—and they would be, if he knew Beth and Fellows—would see the hole in the top of the hill and explore it.
Ian carefully probed the wall and ground around him, before he pushed himself to a sitting position. His head didn’t strike a ceiling, and he could feel only emptiness above him, no matter how high he reached. He concluded that he was in a deep hole indeed. It was somewhat warm down here, no cool breeze to chill him. While the afternoon sun had been warm, the wind hadn’t been—it never was at Kilmorgan.
A light would be handy. Ian’s leather sporran, on his belt, carried all sorts of practical things. He knew exactly which items were it, and put his hand unerringly on a box of matches.
Ian’s fingers were steady as he opened the box, withdrew a sulfur match, and struck it against the rock wall.
Light flared, making his eyes screw up. The small flame couldn’t much penetrate the heavy darkness, but it was comforting.
By the match’s illumination, Ian saw that he’d been right about the brick and also the natural rock. This was a cellar, or a tunnel, carved out of the rock of the hill and shored up against collapse.
Interesting. Perhaps the Mackenzies of old had understood the need to have a back way out of the castle, or a route to bring in supplies if they were besieged. Ian’s ancestors had joined the national pastime of smuggling, and tunnels would be a good place to both store the contraband and sneak it away from any excise men who came to call.
The match burnt out. Ian stubbed out the spark on a rock. He crawled a little way along the tunnel, sharp stones cutting him, then he withdrew another match and lit it.
One fear Ian did not have was the fear of underground spaces. While darkness used to send him into absolute terror, exploring caves and tunnels awoke his sense of wonder, the need to learn and understand something absolutely. When Hart and Ian had gotten themselves trapped in the underground rivers and sewers of London years ago, Ian had known the exact layout of every tunnel. This had annoyed Hart, he remembered. Losing Hart down there had haunted him for years.
This time, Ian had lost only himself, which didn’t worry him. He would find a way out. He always did.
As Ian waved his match around, the light caught on the gleam of something that glinted back almost as brightly. The last of the panic fled as Ian’s curiosity seized him and overrode all other emotions.
He carefully crawled toward the gleam. Not an animal’s eyes—animal eyes in the dark were different, vibrant, aware. This glint was static, unmoving, inanimate.
Ian’s match went out. The last of the flame burned his hand, making him let out a curse in Gaelic before he dropped it. He then found the match and ground it against the rock, making sure it was truly out. Fire was nothing he’d be careless with.
The next match bloomed in the darkness. Its light fell on something gold. Not solid gold, Ian realized, his heart beating faster. Gilding. On a frame of a picture painted by Mac Mackenzie and lying in a jumbled pile atop other paintings, with frames either broken or missing entirely.
Before Ian’s match went out, it caught on the oval face of a Madonna, a pudgy baby in her lap, painted in the unmistakably vivid colors of the artist called Raphael.
Chapter Nine
Fellows called his men together after several hours of searching, taking their reports. Nothing.
He knew that in daylight, he might be able to trace a trail—footprints, broken branches, the snag of a cloth in Mackenzie plaid. Of course, with the men of three villages and the crofts in between swarming all over, any evidence of Ian’s passing likely had been destroyed.
Fellows could not lose him. Not only would Beth blame him forever, but Hart was here now, a man who would punish the world if harm came to his beloved younger brother.
Besides, Fellows had grown fond of Ian. Once upon a time, he’d been convinced Ian was a crazed murderer, but he had admitted that his prejudice against the Mackenzie family had colored his judgment.
Hell, it had blotted out his judgment with opaque paint. In his pursuit of Ian, Fellows had only proved himself to be as mad as the rest of the Mackenzies.
He’d come to appreciate Ian’s brain, the quietness that hid lightning-quick thoughts. Ian had the ability to see into the heart of a problem, unswayed by the emotions and biases that clouded the eyes of most observers.
That is, Ian had that ability when he didn’t go into one of his muddles. Then his clarity was erased, his sharp rationality destroyed.
Ian must have gone off today in one of these storms in his mind, and perhaps had run straight into whoever had shot at him earlier.
Fellows comforted himself by the fact that none of the men had stumbled over Ian’s dead body. They would have, he was certain, if Ian had come to that kind of harm.
Unless, of course, the resourceful killer had dumped him into the river.
Damn it all. Fellows faced his men now, asking for reports. No one had found any sign of Ian.
“We need to wait until morning.” The words came from Fellows reluctantly. He wanted to search, no matter what, but he knew the chance of finding Ian would be better in the light. “Then we walk a line across the hills, leaving no stone unturned. Understand? Spread the word—we’ll need more men to search, able-bodied boys as well. Boys can sometimes find what grown men can’t. For now, rest and prepare for tomorrow.”
“No.” Hart Mackenzie materialized out of the dark. “We aren’t stopping until he’s found.”
Fellows knew he’d have this confrontation. He faced his half brother, the two close in age and temperament. Hart’s eyes glinted in the light of the lanterns, the desperation on his face matched only by stubborn determination.
“If they continue thrashing about in the dark, they’ll miss him,” Fellows said. “Wasting energy that can be used to find him tomorrow.”
“Meanwhile, Ian is left exposed to the cold and the night, which could kill him.” The harsh gravel of Hart’s voice grated. “I’ll not leave my brother out here alone.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t stop looking,” Fellows returned. “And you are free to do what you like. I’ve run many a manhunt in my time, and I know the odds of finding a person in the night with an exhausted search party.”
Hart’s gaze didn’t waver. “And are your manhunts always a success?”
“Yes.” Fellows had never given up a hunt before the quarry was found, whether he searched for a criminal hiding from the police or a missing child.
Hart took a step closer to him. “Do you always find them alive?”
Not always. Fellows had to admit that. Sometimes he was simply too late. “A high percentage of the time, yes.”
They watched each other, a few feet apart, eye level with one another. Wind stirred Hart’s hair, his well-tailored coat, and his kilt, his clothes the finest money could buy. Fellows was in a rumpled suit with a stained greatcoat, his hat squashed down upon his head. Stripped naked, the symbols of who they were gone, there would be little difference between them. Or so Ian would claim. The blood of the Mackenzies would ring true.
A man shouted in the woods. Another shouted back, in Gaelic, which Fellows didn’t understand, but Hart came alert.
Without a word, Hart turned from Fellows and strode into the darkness, his steps changing to a run. Fellows went after him, the swift jog he used for chasing villains through London letting him easily catch up.
Hart and Fellows followed the voices along the hillside below Kilmorgan Castle, and deep into the woods beyond. The ground was uneven, and Fellows stumbled more than once. Hart, who’
d known the paths from boyhood, kept a rapid pace.
The woods ended at the top of another steep hill, which rolled down to the nearby sea. A man in a kilt was striding up from the rocky shingle, village men with lanterns surrounding him.
Hart uttered a cry that Fellows knew very few ever heard, one of vast relief and thankfulness. Hart shoved aside those in his way and caught the tall Scotsman in a hard embrace. Lantern light fell on Ian’s face, which was streaked with black dirt, Ian’s eyes sparkling among the grime.
Ian jumped slightly at Hart’s hug, as though surprised his older brother had been worried about him. Fellows, the same relief as Hart’s washing through him, watched Ian stare at Hart in perplexity, then bring his hands up to pat his brother’s back.
When Hart finally pulled away, Ian said, “Come and see.”
He broke from Hart and strode back down the hill. Hart said severely, “Damn you, Ian!” But Ian kept walking, heading back for the shore, disappearing behind a bend in the hill.
Fellows, his curiosity pricking, followed.
Ian moved quickly, Hart growling as he tried to keep up. Fellows fell into step with Hart. “Did you expect anything else?” Fellows asked him. “The bloody man is unfathomable.”
Hart only muttered under his breath and quickened his pace.
Ian led them through a thick stand of trees then stopped before a slab of rock that ran straight down from the hill above. A niche in this rock, a mere shadow under the light of the village men’s lanterns, proved to be the opening to a cave.
The cave had a low ceiling—they had to bend double to follow Ian inside—but it opened up after a few yards to a tall tunnel, carved out by water and wind. Long ago, human beings had shored up parts of it with bricks and stones like those used to build the original castle. The bricks had crumbled into red-brown dust, but the quarried stones remained.
Ian was moving down this tunnel like a freight train on its way to its final delivery. Hart, uttering colorful phrases in English and Gaelic, hurried after him. Fellows brought up the rear in silence.
“I’ll be buggered.” The voice of Curry, who’d followed, echoed in the darkness. “Who’d steal a houseful of artwork and dump it in a hole?”
The lantern light fell on a mess. Paintings were strewn about, some ripped from frames and folded in half, lesser paintings piled haphazardly on those that were priceless. The sculptures by Mr. Degas lay in a ruined heap, the horses’ legs entwined. Two other sculptures—the head of a young lady and a Chinese bronze, lay nearby, scratched and half buried in stones.
Fellows’s breath caught. Not only did the destruction of the valuable and beautiful things kick him in the gut, but the scenario was familiar. Memories of a long-ago day, when he’d been a very young man, just admitted to CID, flitted into his head. Not his first case, but an early one. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but the crime was the same. A house robbed of famous artwork, but the pieces then broken and found in a drained pond nearby.
One of the villagers suggested, “Maybe they stashed it to return later, after they found somewhere to sell it.”
Ian shook his head. “They’d have taken care. Bundled it up to keep it safe. This was abandoned.”
“Why the hell—” Hart broke off, flushed with rage. “This is a man who wants to punch me in the face. Maybe my whole family.” He swung around to look at Fellows. “Who?”
Ian was watching Fellows, seeing him realize things. “Sedgwick,” Ian said. “Remember?”
“I remember,” Fellows said sharply. “How do you? That was nearly twenty years ago.”
“I read of it.” Ian rubbed a hand over his face, smearing it more with grime. “Look into it.”
Fellows had planned to, but Ian’s high-handedness, after they’d all feared him gone to an early grave, was irritating. “Sedgwick is dead. And Radcliffe. All of them.”
Ian fixed Fellows with his unwavering golden gaze, as though all the players in an old case being deceased was of no moment. “You will have written things down.”
“I know that.” Fellows’s case notes had been meticulous throughout his career. “But they are in London.”
A foolish statement, Fellows knew, as soon as it left his mouth.
“Then go to London,” Ian said, and turned away, back to Hart and the paintings.
* * *
Ian’s interest in the artwork and why it had been abandoned in the tunnels fled when he saw Beth running toward him from the house. Her skirts rippled and her feet skimmed the ground, as she hurtled herself at Ian. He caught her in his arms and let her drag her down to him, their mouths meeting in a fierce kiss.
Beth was Ian’s world. His life. Her warmth came to him now, cutting the chill of the tunnels and the night. Her lips moved beneath his, her body pliant under his hands as she held him.
The hunger in his heart had been satisfied when he’d met her. Pain and fear eased, light and heat taking its place. Beth clung to him, deepening the kiss, holding him close.
“Ian.” The harsh sound of Hart’s voice cut through the bubble of comfort Beth wrapped around him.
Ian ignored him. Hart was hard about the edges, gruff sounding, and smelled like he’d been traveling for hours. Beth was softness and sweetness, her scents water and soap. Much more pleasant.
“Ian.” Hart’s hand landed on Ian’s shoulder.
Beth stepped back. “You must forgive me, Hart,” she said, voice shaking. “Only I’ve just learned that my husband is alive and well.”
“You took us on a merry chase, Ian,” Hart growled. “What the devil were you—”
Beth stepped in front of Hart. “Kindly do not lash into him,” she said coolly. “Ian has had an ordeal. Let him rest and calm, and then you may ask your questions. Politely.”
Ian suppressed a smile. Beth liked to defend Ian against Hart—against the world—with well-bred snarls and kitten claws.
Ian knew exactly how to divert Hart’s attention from berating him for being found, unhurt. “Someone dug a hole at the top of the hill, near the keep. Hid it with a plug of sod. Board it up. Keep the children from falling in.”
Hart stared at him with his golden eyes for half a moment, then he turned around and started bellowing orders at the men who’d been on the search.
While he did so, Ian, no longer interested in stashes of art and tunnels under the old castle, let Beth take him into the house. She ordered Curry to draw him a bath then shooed Curry away and took up the sponge to Ian’s body herself.
That led to some interesting kisses, water all over the bathroom floor, and Ian making hard love to his wife on the damp carpet.
* * *
Ian went in search of John Ackerley the next morning, after Hart and Fellows at last ceased interrogating him. Ian had repeated his story several times, though he told the same tale again and again. He was beginning to think them mad when he finally turned and stalked out of the gallery where Hart and his staff were sifting through the art to see what they could save.
Neither Fellows nor Hart tried to stop him. Not that Ian would let them.
Ian spied Curry hurrying across staircase hall and beckoned to him. “Ackerley?”
“No, me lord.” Curry pressed his hands to his chest. “Curry.”
Ian gave him an impatient look. “Where is he?”
“You’re in a mood, ain’t ye? Mr. Ackerley, brother-in-law to your lady wife, is strolling in the gardens. Saw him heading to the far end. Probably off to do some exploring.”
Without a word, Ian stepped past Curry and headed for the garden door.
“You’re welcome, me lord,” Curry’s voice drifted after him. “What I put up with . . . Should ’ave stuck to the streets and avoiding the ’angman.”
Ian took no notice. Curry loved to drone on about the hell his life had become since he’d begun working with Ian. Since Curry had never once taken the opportunity to leave, Ian had ceased listening.
Ackerley was indeed at the far end of the garden,
making for the gate that led to the wild lands beyond. The gardeners Malcolm Mackenzie had hired years ago had only tamed the land inside the gate. On the other side of it, the glen dropped into crags and rivers, beautiful and rugged. Fine for a Highlander born to it, not so much for a soft Englishman, never mind he’d survived India and Africa. Scotland had a mind of its own.
Ian put his hand on the low iron gate, an artwork in itself, brought over from Italy by Hart when he inherited the place.
“Aye,” Ian said when Ackerley looked at him in surprise. “I will try your cure. What do I have to do?”
Chapter Ten
Ackerley’s cure seemed to mostly involve talking. Of course it would, Ian thought as Ackerley faced Ian across a table in one of Kilmorgan’s lavish sitting rooms.
The ceiling soared high above them, artwork that depicted the Trojan War, from Paris presenting the apple to Aphrodite to Helen’s abduction to the fall of the great city, marching across it. Achilles died in agony in one panel, a reminder to all that every man was vulnerable.
Ian had spent hours in this room as a child, lying on the carpet, taking in the pictures, while Hart had explained the story to him. Hart had been a youth then, angry and in sometimes violent conflict with their father, but had always taken time to be kind to Ian.
Ian remembered every word of the stories Hart had told even now. He also remembered thinking that Helen had an oddly shaped face, the spears wielded by the fighters were out of proportion, and Paris looked like a sour-faced footman.
“My lord?” Ackerley cut through Ian’s memories.
“Mmm?” Ian dragged his gaze from the ceiling and settled it on Ackerley. He didn’t look sour faced; more like a happy pieman who’d already sold plenty of pies that morning.
“Are you ready to begin?”
Ian gave him a nod, not bothering to answer. If he weren’t ready, why would he be sitting here?