The Playroom

It was a simple drawing. It showed a floor and a wall and a window. The floor was irregular stone flags. The wall was thick, and the window was small. Beneath the window was some planking that seemed to indicate that the window might once have been a door. A small door.

"It is, isn't it?"

The playroom now had carpet and rugs on the floor, There were many coats of paint on the woodwork concealing the grooves in the planking, but it was unmistakable.

"We can check. We can lift the carpet. Compare the floor."

"We'll do that?"

She passed me another document from her box. It was a newspaper report. The original paper had flaked and rotted, but it was attached to a hand-written transcription.

The hand writing was not good, but it was a report of a disorderly house being run adjacent to the Inn. It named our village. The woman accused of running the brothel was one Phoebe Corbett who was also described as a brew-wife and a herbalist.

Phoebe Corbett had been confined in a locked room in the brothel, but had disappeared. It described the room. I could make out an illustration in the newspaper which matched the picture of the playroom window. The text declared that the window had not, indeed could not be opened.

I looked at her. Phoebe was taking over from Fiona more and more. There was little sign of the hesitant Fi.

"Phoebe? Fi?"

For a moment the hesitance was back.

"Please Prof, call me Phoebe. Fiona was only half a person. Phoebe is all of me."

I could see in her eyes that Phoebe was there again. She just smiled.

"So you were her?" I indicated the newspaper?

"I don't know. I think that I was a part of her. I have some memories, but ..."

What to say?

I sipped at my mug.

"Thanks for the coffee."

"Yes, it's better than instant, isn't it." she answered, "I think that poor old Fiona preferred instant."

We drained our mugs.

"The carpet then. Let's check.

In the playroom we soon had the stone flags uncovered. They matched the picture perfectly.

I examined the window. I could see that the grooves in the paint matched the planking in the picture. Then I noticed that at one corner, near the floor there was some damage. The wood had been kicked or hit by some furniture. One plank had split. There was a tiny gap I fetched my toolbox. A screwdriver behind the plank increased the gap. I could feel a slight draught on my cheek. I got a torch from my toolbox and shone it at the gap. It was just a hole.

I strained at my screwdriver and the plank split further, and then it broke. There was a hollow space. The torch revealed a shaft going down.

I put my hand in and felt around. There was something at the top -- just under the window sill. It moved, and as it did, the sill moved slightly. A gap appeared at its back. A bit of leverage with an old paint scraper had the sill sliding forward to reveal a shaft.

I shone the torch down the shaft. There were metal rungs. I'm not underweight by any means, but I thought that I could do it.

"Shall we?" I asked Phoebe.

"We have to, now, don't we?"

I put my hand on one of the rungs and tested it. It seemed strong and well fixed.

"I know what to do."

I went along to Dave's room. Amongst his clutter I found a larger torch and one of his climbing harnesses and ropes. We soon had it rigged up and hanging down the shaft. I attached the harness to the rope and lowered myself down the shaft, feeling for the rungs, kicking them and testing them with my feet.

I concentrated on my climb until my feet were once again standing on stone flags. Only then did I wave the torch around.

"I'm coming down" said the voice from above.

"No, wait," I commanded, but I was ignored, and moments later Phoebe was standing beside me holding the smaller torch. We started to explore.

Barrels, bottles, planks. There was the gleam of copper. It was a cellar that looked to run the entire length of the house. It was divided into a series of stalls, with the stall's walls supporting the room walls above.

"Over here." Phoebe called to me.

In one of the stalls was a chair and table. There was a bottle and a glass on the table. In the chair were the mummified remains of a female human body.

"Well," Phoebe said, "Not many folk get to see their own corpse."

My torch flickered.

"We need to think, and we need some decent light."

We made our way back up the rungs. We brushed the dust off ourselves.

"I think that I need some more of that coffee." I said.

"Yes."

We did need time for thought.

How long was it? Minutes or hours. We each had our own thoughts.

"Phoebe, do you remember ... Did you talk to my Libby? Did you offer yourself? For me?"

"Yes, I remember that."

"She, that is, Libby, encouraged me to ..."

"I know."

"Thank you."

We were silent again.

"I don't think," she said, "that I will be in your dreams in the same way again."

I thought.

"But my offer still stands." She grinned.

I grinned. "Is that a personal or a professional offer."

"We'll have to see. A bit of both I think."

"Thanks. I might accept, if the terms are right."

"But what are we going to do about me ... her, down there."

"Call the police?" was my first reaction.

"I'd wait a bit. We need a good look round."

I found a mains extension leads and various electric lamps. We lowered them down. The first time that the cellar was illuminated by electric light -- well, not counting our torches -- it revealed a series of workshops and a series of crimes or near crimes. In one stall there were coins -- coin clipping and counterfeiting were common years ago. At one end there was a hearth and furnace for melting metal, probably gold and silver we surmised. Using the same flue, the gleam of copper we had seen before was a still, for illicit production of spirits.

Barrels. Probably smuggled.

Bottles. I looked at them. I had seen their like just once before, and that was the night before last.

Most were empty. However there were about a dozen heavier ones with sealing wax covering their corks.

"Well, the police would have fun down here."

"They can see where we have moved things."

"And if this is what I think it is", I held up a full bottle, then I don't want to lose it."

"It is." She smiled again. "It is what you think it is. But I might remember how to make some more."

"Not when they have confiscated the still."

"Aaaah."

She took the bottle from me.

"It's been a long time since I tasted this."

We turned off and unplugged the lamps. Using the rope we lifted them and the cables out. I replaced the window sill after examining the catch mechanism. It linked to a tiny lever at one side, but that had been painted solid. I disabled the catch and slid the sill into place. It fitted perfectly. I found some glue, and replaced the bit of broken plank. We relaid the carpet and rugs.

"When that has set," I was referring to the glue, "I will give it a dab of paint."

"Lets have some more of those left-overs," she suggested.

We sat at the kitchen table, with the bottle standing, dusty, between us. There was little of the wedding feast left now. For the next meal we would have to do a bit more work.

"What about Sid? Wont he be wanting you to work for him?"

"Well yes, and no. I don't think that he really wants me there, it was just his turn to look after little Fiona."

"I suppose that we could sort of tell him the truth. You, know, men and women, a bit of seduction. We don't have to tell him who, how, or when the seduction was?"

"And if we forget Phoebe, and stick with Fi. Meeting you could sort of, you know, bring me out of my shell."

"And David and Liz?"

"Oh, the imagination can be a powerful thing, can't it."

We were comfortable in each other's company.

Now before we open this bottle, just to see if it is still drinkable, of course. I was imagining ..." she suggested.

"Business or pleasure?"

"Oh, both, I think. I used to enjoy my work, you know."

"In the play room?"

"Of course."

She took my hand and sort of stroked my palm.