CHAPTER 9
“Ewww!”
“I heard rats! And the smell . . .”
“Either shut up, or get out—what’s it gonna be?”
“I’ll be quiet . . . I promise.”
“Keep your light on, and the rats won’t come near you.”
Only minutes earlier it had looked like Tuesday would not be the day they explored under the stairs. Lyman had kept a close watch on Jill and Ben all day long, and Robert the Stealth Bomber had not volunteered for a solo mission into the darkness. Patience still seemed like the wisest option.
As usual, they had set up their study areas in the library right after school—Ben and Jill in the alcove on the north wall, and Robert off by himself at a table near the American history section.
And, as usual, Lyman had stopped in to check on Ben and Jill—except today he hadn’t even bothered to act like a janitor. He’d just walked in, stared at them, frowned, and then left.
The second he had gone, Robert rushed to the alcove. “Listen up,” he whispered. “In eight minutes you two go to the north stairwell and check out that space, okay? You can only stay ten minutes, then come right back here.”
“What?” said Ben. “We don’t—”
“Listen—I’ve got a diversion, I planned it all weekend. Exactly eight minutes from my mark, okay?”
“A diversion? What—”
Robert shook his head. “No time!” He looked at his watch. “Eight minutes . . . from now! Trust me!”
And with that, Robert had rushed out of the library, waving at Mrs. Sinclair and saying, “Have to go to the restroom!”
Jill and Ben had decided to trust him—which was why they were standing just inside the area under the steps.
Getting in had been easy today—the baluster turned smoothly, the triangular panel had swung open noiselessly, and they had crouched low and stepped inside, Ben first.
And now with the door pulled shut behind them, he spotted a hook made of hammered iron that was clearly meant for holding it closed. With camera in one hand and flashlight in the other, Ben turned around.
He didn’t really like having to be the brave one here, didn’t like having to be the one knocking down all the spiderwebs and taking the first few steps on the crunchy floor. But Jill, usually so fearless, was totally unnerved by the rats. She clung to her small light like it was the last life vest from the Titanic.
She was right about the smell. It reminded him of the odor from the bats in his grandparents’ shed up in Maine. Rat droppings, bat droppings—pretty much the same.
John Vining had done nice finish work in the little room, and Ben admired the carpentry. The walls were covered in pine boards with hardly a hairsbreadth between them. The slanted ceiling of the stairs rising above them was also layered with pine. From the highest point of the slant, a sooty brass lantern hung from a chain hooked to a nail.
It was easy for Ben to imagine lots of uses for this room back when Captain Oakes had his shipping business—especially when the British began taxing everything going to and from the colonies. This would have been a perfect place to hide chests of tea, bolts of silk, or barrels of molasses—also a safe spot for bags of gold or silver coin.
Jill was right behind him, almost stepping on his heels. “Any rats?”
“Shh—no!”
He shined his light straight ahead—a door, slightly ajar! He’d expected to see the area there to his left, the space directly below the landing, but a door? Leading where? The pictures he’d snapped Saturday night hadn’t shown that.
Ben pulled an index card and a pencil from his pocket, and holding the flashlight in his mouth, he made a quick sketch that showed the layout of the space.
“Look!” Jill was shining her light elsewhere, and Ben swung around.
On the board next to the triangular door through which they had entered, someone had scratched tally marks into the wood.
“Sixty-seven,” she whispered.
“Shut your eyes,” said Ben, aiming his camera.
He did the same and snapped a photo of the marks. Then he turned around again, gave the same warning, and took another picture.
“I’m gonna open that door.”
“I’m staying here,” Jill said. “No, wait, I’m coming!”
She took two steps, then aimed her flashlight left. “Look!” she said softly. “What’s that doing in here?”
Ben had seen it too. “No idea,” he said, then, “Picture,” and he took a photo of a narrow iron bed along the back wall, its straw mattress rotted and falling through the slats to the floor.
“What is this place?” Jill whispered. “Gives me the creeps!”
Before opening the door, Ben shined his flashlight at the hinges. They were brass, blackened with age. He pushed the door gently, and the hinges squeaked a little, but they were a lot quieter than rusty iron ones would have been.
There wasn’t much to see. In one corner, a wooden bucket, its rope handle nearly disintegrated. In another, a low pile of rope, and what looked like a moldy woolen coat and some scraps of leather, all thoroughly chewed by rats.
The most interesting thing to Ben’s eye was immediately to his left. A low block of rusty iron sat on the floor, with the remains of a folded blanket beneath it. A good-size hammer lay nearby, and to one side of the block there was a pile of iron scraps, badly rusted. There was a scattering of clear greenish glass that might once have been a bottle. Snapping picture after picture, Ben documented everything.
“How’s our time?” he asked.
“Two more minutes,” Jill replied, “but I think we should leave early, don’t you?”
Ben wasn’t quite done. He stood in the middle of the room and did a slow turn, shooting overlapping photos. Then he went out the door, stood in the center of the area under the landing, and did the same thing. Clear pictures would help them focus their next search. And he especially wanted Robert the genius to have a good look.
“Okay,” he whispered.
They both went to the low doorway and listened carefully—no sounds from nearby. Ben nodded, and Jill unlatched the hook, then pushed the panel open. Stepping out onto the stairwell floor, Jill pointed behind them. “Problem!”
They were leaving dusty footprints—and rat droppings.
Jill shut the door and pointed up at the baluster. “You do that; I’ll get this,” she whispered.
As Ben started up to twist the baluster closed, Jill took off the thin cotton sweater she was wearing over her T-shirt. Dropping to her knees, she swept the area clean, gathering up the rat mess in the folds of the cloth.
“Here,” she said, as Ben came down. She made a face and held it out to him at arm’s length. “You get to carry it.”
Ben smiled. “Deal.” He folded the soiled side inward until the sweater was a small blue packet, then tucked it under his arm.
They took one last look around, peeked through the hallway door, and then hurried out and walked toward the library.
They didn’t meet Lyman in the hall, they got no questions or odd looks from Mrs. Sinclair as they entered the library, and there was Robert, sitting at his table, taking furious notes from a large book. He didn’t even glance up at them.
Back at their place in the alcove, Ben looked at the twenty or thirty images on the tiny screen of his camera. The shots were clear, but he had no idea what he was looking at. A room, yes—but what were they supposed to find in there? And what about all that random stuff?
He shrugged. Maybe Robert would be able to make some sense of it.
Anyway, it was a successful raid. Whatever Robert’s diversion was, it had worked. Ben didn’t feel like they had actually found the next safeguard yet—the things they’d seen didn’t seem particularly useful—yes, a few interesting antiques, but nothing like a codicil, nothing with the power to stop the Glennley Group. Still, they’d made good use of their tactical advantages. The teamwork had been perfect, and they’d proven that Lyman couldn’t blockade them in the library.