The Tunnel Builder Ch. 03

Later, as she spooned herself behind me and held my breasts, she said, "Don't take liberties."

"Isn't that precisely what libertines do?"

"Oh, well, yes, I guess so. Well, only take them when I say so."

We both chuckled.

Norman Queeg was a mechanic who had a bit of a shady sideline as what Polly described as an 'unofficial' locksmith. "If anyone can get that open without anyone knowing he's been there, he's the man. Don't ask questions. He might even make us a key for it."

"You keep dangerous company."

"No, darling, you do." Her grin was that of a hungry tiger.

Queeg was a man of few words. He spent a couple of minutes examining the lock and, having selected a tool from a canvas pouch, opened the lock with a couple of deft hand movements. "There you go. I'll drop the key round later."

"Thanks, Norm." With a grunt, Norman packed away his kit and left. "I guess," said Polly, "in his profession silence can be golden."

I couldn't wait to get into the book, only to feel a sense of profound disappointment. The first page was written in, I assumed, Isabella's hand.

'I know Harry is concerned for me and I cannot hate him. He is a most caring husband. I have days when I cannot remember who I am, or who he is. Sometimes, he tells me, I become violent; to him or to my nurse, or to myself. I do not remember these incidents.

'The truth is not buried, but it is here for all to see as I lie under the straps and blankets of my cot.'

There was more.

''Dr Martin looks after me so well. Sometimes I think he is trying to kill me but I know that that is not true for he is a wonderful doctor. He says I asked him to help me escape but I have no desire to leave this place. I know I am not lucid, but fear I am insane.'

So, what was that all about? It was undated, but I could only assume it was perhaps the last thing she wrote before her untimely death from 'heart failure.' I leafed through the book and noticed there were some pages torn out and others cut out very neatly.

"Come down to my workshop. I want you to help me with something and it will keep your mind off all this. If you take a break, maybe you'll be able to work it out."

Polly left and I went to change into overalls and boots, not wanting my decent clothes to get dirty in her workshop.

When I joined her, she was focussed on a cello that looked as if it had seen better days. "I need to get you to hold this for me while I try to separate the neck without doing any more damage. This poor thing's been in the wars a bit. It was a car crash."

I squatted to hold the body of the thing, while Polly worked with first one tool, then another, as she tried to liberate the neck. I was enthralled by her concentration. Nothing could have taken her mind off it.

"There's a stand-light on the bench. It's special, it's very bright and might just let me see better. I may have to give this some heat to melt glue but I don't want to do anything until I have seen exactly what's going on."

The light was amazingly bright, concentrated precisely where she needed it. Having examined it using her eyes, then a magnifier, she did something with a hair dryer and the neck came away without any apparent damage.

"Excellent. How very gratifying. Thank you."


"Polly, can I borrow the light?"

"Sure." She was back in her own world, only half an ear for me, so I took the light and magnifier, and returned to the office.

It had occurred to me that although there was only one page of writing in the locked book, there might be indentations of more script, perhaps erased or maybe where pages had been torn or cut out. I set the light up so it cast its beam at an angle and slowly turned the pages. It was a great idea but, sadly, revealed nothing. I sat back, frustrated. What did the enigmatic text mean? But then, something caught my eye. I'd left the book with the light shining on Isabella's script. I saw small, indistinct marks under the text at apparently random intervals. Were they deliberate? Were they just scuff marks from, perhaps, her sleeve.

I took the magnifier and examined the marks. Surely, they were deliberate, even if indistinct? I'd never have seen them without the light, but magnified, they were there.

I started to note the words under which they appeared and something heart-breaking appeared.

In the first sentence, the words marked read, "I - hate - him." The second paragraph, which made no sense at all, was still more disturbing. "Truth - buried -under - cot."

In the passage that started, 'Dr Martin' it read thus. "Martin - trying - to - kill - me. I - desire - leave - this - place. I - am - not - insane."

I ran down to Polly. "Polly, you must come, I think I have found something."


"Bit awkward just now. I'll be with you in a minute."


"I'll be in the cellar."

I grabbed the light and magnifier and found a screwdriver in the cupboard by the cellar stairs. I went down, plugged in the light and turned it on. I moved the bedstead. Moving the light revealed mostly dust so I grabbed a brush and carefully swept it away. The flagged floor under the bed looked completely solid so I tried using the screwdriver, gently, to see if any of the stones were loose. One of them, right up against the wall, moved slightly. With my heart in my mouth, I tried a little harder. It came up a short way then, annoyingly, slipped back down the screwdriver blade.

"Fuck."

"Language!" said Polly. I hadn't noticed she'd arrived. "What have you got?"

I was on my knees and turned to face her. "I think, Polly, we have a murder."