Chapter Twenty-Three

C ould there be some sort of storage space under the closet? The idea wasn’t completely implausible, but George could not imagine such a thing existing without his knowing about it. Not unless Aunt Helena and Uncle William had deliberately concealed the space. Which, he had to admit, was possible. Aunt Helena hadn’t liked it when any of the children explored the attics. She might have felt the same way about this cellar. Assuming it existed, that is.

Stephen Cawley led them all straight to the closet under the stairs. Then he tugged at a large basket containing the laundry line and an assortment of wooden clothespins.

“It’s under here,” he explained.

George stepped up to give him a hand. Together, they moved the basket out from under the stairs. Then everyone looked at the newly exposed patch of flooring. There was absolutely nothing special about it. It was just a wooden floor.

Although, now that he thought about it, wasn’t it a little odd that the floor in the closet was made of wood? Stone pavers covered the floor in the entranceway, just like the kitchen. But then again, there was probably wood under the carpet in the corridor. George could not be sure, since he had never seen the corridor without the carpet.

Mr. Cawley stated the obvious. “There’s no trapdoor here, Stephen. What are you talking about?”

“Yes, there is!” Stephen insisted. “The latch is hidden.” He knelt down and ran his fingers along the floor until he found what looked like a knot in the grain. He pushed on it, and suddenly a small section of the floor popped up.

“Good Lord!” Cawley breathed. “There is a trap door! Why didn’t Aunt Tilly tell me about it?”

“She says you never sat still long enough to hear the whole story,” the younger Cawley boy explained.

Belle, who stood on her tiptoes to peer over George’s shoulder, clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a giggle. George caught her eye and grinned, and her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“This is precisely why one should always be respectful to elders,” George told his neighbor. “You never know what secrets they might be hiding.”

“Apparently.” Cawley continued to study the open trapdoor. “So, what’s inside this cellar?”

“Nothing!” Graham Cawley punctuated his answer with a rude sound. “It’s empty. No treasure.”

“Unless the treasure is hidden,” his older brother qualified. “We didn’t really look around, we didn’t have a candle.”

George straightened up. “That’s what we need! A candle! I’ll go grab one from my nightstand.”

To his surprise, Belle stopped him. “I have a better idea.” She spoke softly, but without hesitation or stammering. George hoped that meant she was growing more comfortable around their new neighbors. “I will go and ask Hastings for a lantern,” she continued. “There must be one around here somewhere. That will be easier than trying to carry an open flame.”

“Excellent point,” George agreed. He meant to fetch a lantern himself, but just then the youngest Cawley child tumbled into the hole head-first. In the subsequent chaos, he entirely forgot about the need for a light.

Mr. Cawley cautiously lowered himself into the dark pit. A sudden yelp indicated that he’d hit his head on something, but the string of hushed profanity that followed suggested he hadn’t been seriously injured.

“All right down there?” George called anxiously. He desperately wanted to climb down the hole, too, but he had no idea how big the space was. He would probably just get in the way.

“Right enough,” Cawley answered. “The ceiling here is rather low, though. Not enough room for a man to stand up. I mean, a tall man,” he qualified.

George grinned. “I might fit, since I’m not as tall as you.” Maybe for once there’d be an advantage to being of middling height.

“Maybe. There’s not much room down here though,” Cawley warned. “Kirkland, if I lift my son up to the trapdoor, can you help pull him out?”

“Of course!” It was done in a trice. Young Master Graham seemed no worse for his experience, apart from the new layer of dirt all over his clothes. George dug out one of his ubiquitous handkerchiefs and helped dust the child off. Mr. Cawley remained in the cellar, making noises that sounded as if he were tapping on the walls.

It really wasn’t fair that Cawley got to explore the secret cellar first, given that this was George’s house! George very nearly blurted out, “My turn to jump through the trapdoor!” Fortunately, he realized just in time how childish that would sound.

Even more fortunately, Belle arrived bearing the requested lantern. The candle inside burned steadily, without wavering.

Hastings followed behind her. “I thought perhaps you might need help, sir,” he explained to George. But the way he eagerly peered at the trapdoor suggested that curiosity motivated him at least as much as helpfulness did.

“We’ve got a lantern if you want it, Cawley,” George called into the pit. “Or I can join you down there to look about.”

Cawley poked his head up through the open trapdoor. “You’re welcome to have a turn in here, but I predict that there won’t be much to see. As far as I can tell, it’s just a little earthen room.” He hauled himself out of the cellar and dusted himself off. “There is a ladder built into one wall, though. You don’t have to drop straight down into it.”

“That’s a relief.” Though in fact it disappointed George a little. Somehow, a ladder made the hidden space less mysterious, more mundane. It really was nothing more than a forgotten root cellar.

Still, he clambered down the ladder eagerly, carefully holding the lantern in one hand. He didn’t have to climb far, because the empty space beneath was less than six feet deep. No wonder Cawley had hit his head on the thick wooden ceiling! Even George could not stand fully upright in the space.

“What do you see?” Belle peered down through the trapdoor. “Are there shelves or bins for vegetables?”

“Nothing like that,” George said. “Place seems to be empty! Wait, there’s a jar or something in the corner.”

“Oh, right, I nearly tripped over that,” Cawley said. “What is it?”

George picked up the object and turned it over in his hand, puzzled. “It looks like a chamber pot?” He had expected to find a stoneware crock of the sort used to store preserves. But though he turned the pot around, studying it from every angle, it looked like nothing but a chamber pot.

“How strange,” Belle said. “Why would anyone put a chamber pot in a cellar?”

George stilled, and his heart began beating more quickly. “Maybe this isn’t a root cellar,” he suggested, remembering the men’s conversation about the cottage at Cawley’s dinner party. “Maybe it really is a priest hole.”

“Those were usually in manor houses and castles, weren’t they?” Cawley argued. “I wouldn’t expect to find one in a farmhouse occupied by yeomen. I imagine one had to be wealthy to afford a priest hole.”

“But you said the Finches were Papists,” George reminded him. “Recusants. Is it really so unlikely that a house of this size might contain a priest hole?” There were villas in Richmond smaller than Dogwood Cottage, after all.

“I suppose it’s possible.” Cawley still sounded doubtful. “But if there were a priest hole in the cottage, you would think I’d know!” A distinct note of vexation crept into his voice. “Why would Grandmother have told Aunt Tilly about this room but not me?”

“Maybe it’s a secret passed down among the women of the family.” Belle’s soft voice unexpectedly broke into the conversation. Everyone turned to stare at her, and her face flushed. “I suppose that sounds silly. But sometimes women will trust other women with... well, knowledge, or information, that they wouldn’t confide to a man.”

Cawley drew his brows down over his eyes. “Women certainly do have their mysteries,” he agreed, “but I wouldn’t have thought hiding a Jesuit was a feminine secret!”

“Maybe the women of the family were more devout,” George speculated. “I mean, maybe they were the ones who kept the old faith alive in the family. Children often follow the religion of their mothers, don’t they?” He had no idea where he’d heard that, but it seemed reasonable.

“That does make sense,” Cawley granted. “But I still think that, as the current head of the family, I ought to have been told! It isn’t as if the secret poses any kind of danger to the rest of the family now. It’s not illegal for priests to say Mass in England anymore!”

“I don’t know how to explain it, Cawley. Should we speculate that maybe your grandmother didn’t like you that much?” George grinned at the older man, hoping he would not take offense.

Fortunately, Cawley responded with a short bark of laughter. “That might very well be the case. I suppose she always was closer to Aunt Tilly than to my father. Can you hand that thing up?” He reached his arm down so George could pass the chamber pot to him.

George handed it over, glad to be rid of it. It would be easier to climb out of the cellar if he had both hands free. And so far as he could tell, there was nothing but earthen walls and support beams to be seen in the pit. No shelves, no potato bins, nothing that suggested the space had been used for storage anytime in the last century. Implausible as it sounded, George was increasingly convinced that they’d really discovered a priest hole.

Everyone crowded around Cawley, staring at the plain earthenware pot he held. It had single large handle and no ornamentation.

“Is that treasure?” the younger Cawley boy asked eagerly.

Cawley laughed again. “No, this is a potty,” he informed his son. “Like what you might use in the nursery instead of going downstairs to use the water closet.”

“Oh.” The boy’s face fell. “I thought there would be treasure. Gold and silver, Aunt Tilly said.”

Cawley sighed. “I suppose I’d better have a talk with Aunt Tilly. There maybe are other things she didn’t tell me.”

George drew a deep breath, trying to decide whether he could reasonably invite himself into that conversation. On the one hand, this was Cawley family business, and he had no connection to the Cawley family. On the other hand, Dogwood Cottage most certainly was his business now. He tried to catch Belle’s eye to see what she thought, but she was busy examining the stoneware crock.

She lifted her head at last. “Someone who studied stoneware might be able to date this. I mean, at least to a specific century. Don’t you think?”

“I have absolutely no idea, ma’am,” Cawley said. “You may be right, but I wouldn’t know how to find an expert on chamber pots.” The curl of his lip suggested he didn’t take the suggestion very seriously.

“I might know someone,” Belle said. “The problem is, how to get the pot all the way to London without damaging it?”

“Oh, you mean your antiquarian acquaintance? That elderly chap who collects crockery?” George hadn’t made the connection between Belle’s collection of ceramic figurines and the plain, homely pot in her hand. But she most certainly did have acquaintances who knew all about the history of ceramics in England. “That’s a smashing idea!”

“You know an antiquarian who collects pottery?” Cawley sounded surprised. After all, he knew nothing about Belle’s hobbies and collections.

“Yes. Most of the people I know are interested in porcelain and bone china—the work of Meisner and Wedgwood. But I also know a few people who collect Staffordshire pottery. I will write to one of them and see if he can advise us.” She nodded decisively. “This must technically belong to your family, Mr. Cawley, since none of the Kirklands seemed to know about this cellar. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it until I hear back from Mr. Hodges.”

Cawley held his hands up, palms outward, declining any interest in the pot. “You may keep it forever so far as I’m concerned! We don’t know for certain that it ever belonged to the Finches. And I doubt an ancient chamber pot is at all valuable, no matter what my aunt says about treasure.” He smiled ruefully.

“It might have historic value,” Belle suggested. “But only to an antiquarian, I suppose.” She glanced at George. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take this to my studio and make a drawing of it. That may be more helpful to Mr. Hodges than a mere verbal description.”

“Of course! You will have to tell us when you hear back from him.” George studied the trapdoor again. “I suppose there is nothing more we can do to figure out if this really is a priest hole.”

“I will talk to my aunt,” Cawley promised. “Her memory isn’t quite what it used to be, but her mind is still clear.” He turned to Belle and cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would like to drop in for tea Tuesday next? My wife is at home then, and Aunt Tilly joins her when her health allows. You might have a chance to speak to her then.”

Belle bit her lip nervously and hesitated before nodding. “I shall try to do that.”

George wondered if Cawley noticed the way Belle avoided committing herself to the morning call. “Trying” to pay a call left her an out if she had one of her bad headaches, or became caught up in her art. That was better than George’s habit of committing to plans and then completely forgetting about them. He ought to learn from her!

They all went their separate ways after that. The Cawleys went home, Belle took the chamber pot up to her studio to sketch it, and George returned to his study, hoping he could pick up the thread of the plot where he’d left off. But all he could think about was the possible priest hole and the chamber pot inside it.

He paced back and forth for a good ten minutes, wondering how he might incorporate the days’ discovery in this manuscript. It wouldn’t do to mention a chamber pot. There were some things ladies simply wouldn’t read about. But there could be something else found in a priest hole, surely. Something related to priestcraft.

What did Romish priests use to say Mass? Never having attended a Roman Mass, George had no clear idea, but he thought they used ornate cups and plates. His father would know more. George sat down to write a long-overdue letter to his father. It took all his powers of creativity to ask questions about liturgical objects without revealing that he wanted the information for a novel. His father would never support George writing that! But he might be interested in the discovery of the cellar. George whistled as he became absorbed in his correspondence.

Fortunately, writing out the letter seemed to reopen the floodgates of his creativity. He knew what needed to happen next! He set the letter aside and resumed work on his manuscript. When it came time for dinner, he asked for a tray so he could eat while he worked. Belle surely wouldn’t mind dining alone for once. She was probably just as involved in her art, anyway.

When he asked to have his dinner sent to the study, the maidservant gave him a doubtful look, and opened her mouth as if to protest. Then she closed her mouth, bobbed her head, and went to do as requested. If George wondered at all about her hesitation, the question was soon forgotten as he continued to write.