Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [80]
It was a silly question, and a ridiculous answer. He felt terrible. His face was flushed and his eyes had the glassy glitter of fever. The hand that reached for mine was dry and hot. But the smile was as attractive as ever. One thing you had to say about Blankenhagen: his emotions were wholehearted and consistent. When he disapproved of something, the very air turned icy. When he approved . . . Clearly he now approved of me. All of me.
The match went out. I felt sort of silly sitting there in the dark, so when he pulled at my hand, I lay down.
I’m not sure what would have happened next if Tony hadn’t woken up.
Every time I heard him go through this process I decided that, if I was ever weak-minded enough to marry the guy, I would insist on separate bedrooms. He snorted, choked, gargled, and flailed around. By the time he was fully awake, Blankenhagen was clucking with alarm and I was sitting detached, wrapped in my dirt and my dignity.
Since we were undistracted by details such as breakfast and baths, we got right to work. I don’t suppose Tony’s hopes were any higher than mine; but we had been too tired to examine the exit closely, and after all – what else could we do but try? Sitting in peaceful silence waiting to die of starvation wasn’t in keeping with any of our characters.
Blankenhagen could walk, but not much. Tony towed him to the foot of the stairs and propped him up, remarking, ‘Sit and watch. Criticize, complain, cheer politely now and then to encourage us – ’
‘And think,’ I interrupted. ‘We could use a few ideas.’
Tony went up the stairs. The first time he had banged and shoved and given up. This time he just looked. We were running low on matches, so he used pages from his notebook, twisted into tight little spills. Then he came down.
‘There’s a chance,’ he said. He was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but his voice shook slightly.
‘You can lift the stone?’
‘No.’ Tony dropped to the floor and took out his cigarettes. Those nice cancer-producing cigarettes . . . Without that vicious habit we wouldn’t have had any matches. ‘No, there’s something barring the trapdoor – metal, by the feel of it. I jabbed it with my pocketknife. But I’ve had an inspiration. Look at the way this place is built. We’re sitting at the bottom of a narrow shaft. This tunnel, and the shaft, are faced with stones bonded with mortar. They’re old. The mortar is crumbling.’
He dug at a section with his knife blade and dislodged an impressive chunk of plaster.
‘Gently,’ muttered Blankenhagen. ‘One landslide is enough.’
‘Okay, Okay. Now the stone that blocks the shaft is a monolith, must weigh hundreds of pounds, like the stones used to build the Wachtturm. I figure that’s where we are – under the floor of the keep. The stones here in the shaft are much smaller. Behind them is – plain dirt. If I can remove part of the wall of the shaft, and dig out enough dirt to expose the floor slab next to the trapdoor, I can remove it. Either it will push up, or I can chisel out the mortar and let it drop down.’
‘Can’t you let the trap drop down?’ I asked.
‘Stupid question. Trapdoors are designed not to drop down. This one is held up by a rim of stone and some solid metal hinges. We’d have seen it the other day, Vicky, if the floor of the keep weren’t so overgrown. No, the side stone is the only chance.’
The old mortar crumbled under Tony’s vigorous knife. When the first wall stone came out, it was followed by a shower of dirt that got into our eyes and made me wonder whether he was about to start another avalanche. It trickled out, however, and he went on working. When four stones had been removed, there was enough space to allow a man’s body to pass. Tony began to shovel out the dirt. He remarked, ‘I have a feeling I’m never going to want a garden.’
I didn’t answer. My eyes were glued on that gap on the wall, which I was illuminating by means of another homemade torch. By this time we could see the end of the floor slab, and there was a considerable pile of dirt on the stairs.
In less than an hour Tony had