Stolen (17 page)

“Y
OU REALIZE YOU COULD
get arrested for what you've done?” Michael stared at his wife in disbelief.

“Taking a photograph that will most likely end up donated to a thrift shop or thrown away entirely?” Molly shook her head. “A slap on the wrist at most—if the police ever found out. And I don't intend them to.”

“What if this Detective Smollet character had found the photograph on you?”

“I would have said I was going to ask Miss Cloverfield about it. Smollet wouldn't have known I didn't have it when I went there.”

A grimace tightened Michael's mouth and he didn't try to keep it from showing. “Deceit is coming far too easily to you, love.”

“If the stakes weren't so high, I would never even consider doing some of the things I've done these past few days.”

Michael tried to think of a rejoinder, couldn't, and finally gave up. There was no arguing with her logic.

Sitting across the table from them, Keith chuckled. “I missed this. Watching the two of you squabble.”

Michael shot his friend a warning glare.

“Oh, sod off, mate. You've spent the morning dragging me around to the homes of known criminals while playing detective. Molly went to see an old lady. If anyone
should have gotten into trouble, it was us. And we're lucky it wasn't.”

Neon lights that fronted the pub's windows threw hazy colors over them in the corner booth. As usual, Keith had gotten out an artist's pad and started sketching. Images paraded across the paper, many of them the faces of Penny Torrington and August Helfers. A few were of Molly and Michael, as well.

Keith had a point, but Molly's close call bothered him. A server came over to ask if they wanted another round of drinks. Michael opted for tea and Molly coffee, but Keith had another pint.

“This has gotten out of hand, love.” Michael worked to keep his voice level. “We're in way over our heads and I think it's time we admitted that.”

“We were in over our heads from the start, but that doesn't mean I'm going to sit on the sidelines.”

Michael sighed and searched for an argument that didn't sound like an argument. He wasn't very successful.

“Three people have died because of this documentary.” Emotion vibrated in Molly's voice, and Michael detected both pain and guilt. “A documentary that I initiated.”

“This isn't your fault, love. This situation isn't yours to take on.”

“Then whose is it?” Her eyes locked on his and he realized she wasn't going to back away from the course she'd set for herself.

“Paddington and this man Smollet—”

“We can give them what we've uncovered so far. If they can do something with that information, I'm glad.”

“All right.” Michael let out a long breath. “Let's go over all that we do know.”

“We've established that this man Kirkwell was involved
in the Blackpool Train Robbery. Those sketches you found in his journal prove that.”

Michael took the journal from his bag and opened it on the table. When she'd called him about being questioned by the police regarding Miss Cloverfield's death, he'd filled her in briefly about Kirkwell and the journals.

He continued, “Kirkwell possibly worked for Philip Crowe, and Crowe shows up a lot in the sketches Kirkwell made at the time of the robbery.” Michael opened the journal to one of the pages he'd marked with an adhesive tab. The drawing showed a heavily jowled man with a fierce mustache.

“This is Philip Crowe?”

Michael pulled a computer printout from his bag and laid it beside the sketch. The printout was a black-and-white photograph of a London society function. “See for yourself.” He pointed to a man in the photo.

Leaning closer, Molly compared the drawing and the printout. “Kirkwell was a very good artist.”

Michael smiled. “I thought it looked just like him myself. But it doesn't mean that Philip Crowe had anything to do with the robbery.”

“It would be hard to explain what his image is doing in Kirkwell's book as often as it is.” Flipping through the journal, Michael showed her other sketches of the man. They were all done in portrait style, illustrating Crowe without any background.

“If Philip Crowe were alive, possibly,” Michael said. “But he's not. And any guilt might have gone into the grave with him.”

“Maybe not.” Keith shrugged. “My gran used to say you can't bury sin.”

Molly turned a few more pages, then stopped at a draw
ing depicting the interior of a passenger car. It showed a young woman holding a child.

“Was Kirkwell on the train?” Molly's voice was cold and distant, and Michael knew she'd seen something troubling.

“Maybe, but we can't prove that sketch came from the Blackpool train.” Michael had wondered the same thing himself. It appeared after the drawings of Philip Crowe but before those of the train wreck.

“I would bet it did.”

“Why?”

“Because, as you pointed out, Kirkwell had a very good hand for faces. May I borrow your computer?”

Michael passed it across and she powered the computer up. When everything was connected, Molly searched the Internet briefly. With a satisfied smile, she turned the computer toward Michael.

“That is Audrey Cloverfield at the time of the train robbery.”

Peering at the black-and-white photograph closely, Michael had to concede that Kirkwell's drawing might well have been Audrey Cloverfield. The girl looked young and innocent in the photograph as well as the sketch. Three necklaces—one with a cross, one with a silver rose and one with a flower pendant—hung at the hollow of her throat. It pained him to think of what the teenager had gone through at such a tender age. He couldn't imagine dealing with something as horrific as the train wreck at sixteen. He wouldn't want to deal with it now.

“I guess the three necklaces were a fashion statement?” Keith tapped the picture with a forefinger.

Michael shrugged. “Or it was safer to keep them close at hand in case she got separated from her luggage.”

“Why would Kirkwell have been on the train?” Molly stared at the image in the journal.

“The robbers would have needed someone as a spotter,” Keith said. “Could be some of the blokes stayed on the train to see if anything got changed up. They could have got off at the station before Blackpool, or jumped from the train shortly before it derailed. Might have been Kirkwell.”

Molly took the photograph she'd lifted from Audrey Cloverfield's flat and placed it on the table. “Why would Audrey have taken a picture of someone in Blackpool? I would think after the train wreck that she wouldn't ever want to be reminded of that town again.”

“What happened to her after Chloe Sterling died?” The possibility that the sketch of the young woman and child in the train car was that of Audrey Cloverfield and her unfortunate charge lent a somberness to the page.

“From what I read, she was kept on by Richard Sterling till he died, then she was let go. She continued working as a nanny for the rest of her life. Never married. Never had children.”

“So this couldn't be her child?”

“No.”

Michael studied the picture of the little girl with its backdrop of Blackpool Bay and Glower Lighthouse. “Evidently she meant something to Audrey Cloverfield. I don't suppose there's a date marked on this? Or that there was any reference in the book where you found it?” He turned the picture over and gazed at the blank surface.

“There wasn't.”

“Unfortunately kids have a tendency to grow up and look much different than they did when they were young. She could be anybody.”

“No.” Molly shook her head. “That little girl was someone Audrey Cloverfield cared about—or else why keep
the picture all these years? And Audrey had never been to Blackpool until the day of the train robbery. She didn't stay. She returned to London with Chloe Sterling's body.”

“That wouldn't leave much time to meet someone in Blackpool.”

“Unless she met someone on the train who meant something to her.”

 

R
AIN SWEPT IN FROM THE SEA
and fell over Blackpool in blinding sheets. Hunkered under the eaves of the old railway station, Michael watched and cursed the unwelcome weather. His waterproof poncho and boots protected against the downpour, but the cold bit uncomfortably close to the bone. He was still tired from the long trip back from London last night. He'd tried in vain to get Molly to stay in the city, but she was anxious to return to Blackpool and work on salvaging the documentary.

Accepting the misery he'd chosen for himself, Michael turned to Clive Edgars and his brother, Neil. Both of the young men wore ponchos that matched Michael's as well as high boots. Unlike him, they both had beards and long hair that made them resemble pirates fresh off their ship.

“Big blow, ain't it?” Clive grinned, exposing white horselike teeth.

“Maybe there would be a better day we could do this.” Michael didn't want to, though. Since returning from London last night, he'd become anxious to find some of the local spelunkers and tunnel rats to explore the caves and passageways around and under Blackpool.

“What?” Neil lifted shaggy blond eyebrows. “And miss out on all the atrocious weather? Perish the thought.” He and his brother laughed as if it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

The two Edgarses operated a machine shop and salvage
down on the docks, but on weekends and evenings they crawled through the guts of Blackpool. Their father had done the same thing, and his father before him. All of them insisted that pirate treasure remained lost somewhere in the labyrinth below the town.

The treasure was a popular legend, and people had a choice of tales to pick from. The haunted walks put on by Other Syde Tours promoted such stories.

“Besides, water running in the tunnels might help expose hidden places, which is what you say you're searching for.” Clive nodded toward the hillside where an opening lay. “Just have to be careful, is all.”

“Don't want to end up drownt.” Neil grinned at Michael. “Not that we'd let that happen to you, but flash floods can be a problem.”

“Brilliant.” Michael shook his head.

“If we don't go today, it's gonna be a week before we can play guide again.”

“Okay. Let's do it.” Michael took a deep breath and considered what faced him. He'd been underground in the tunnels before, but not with rainwater flooding the area. The possibility of drowning was distinctly unpleasant and one of his top fears.

More than anything, though, he wanted Molly safe and sound, and for all the lingering threats to vanish from their lives. In order to do that, he had to solve the mystery of the train robbery. Or convince her—and himself—that a solution after so much time simply wasn't possible.

He didn't know who would like that answer least. Molly or him.

When the Edgars brothers took off, Michael followed. The muddy ground sucked at his boots and filled the treads with clumps of grassy earth. At the hillside opening, Clive switched on his headlamp and swept an arm out to clear
the brush and roots. Bugs and worms slithered through the loosened soil.

Absolutely lovely.
Michael switched on his own torch, adjusted his backpack, and plunged into the deep throat of the earth.

E
NOUGH RAINWATER HAD SLUICED
into the passageway to make the footing treacherous. Michael slipped and tripped a few times, banging off the muddy walls before he regained his balance. The two brothers seemed as surefooted as mountain goats and talked incessantly about the past week at the docks. They cracked jokes and related humorous incidents with customers and tourists.

They also pointed out the sights to Michael: rocks that Neil felt certain had been shaped by Roman tools, an arrowhead that belonged to an English longbowman, shattered bits of pottery that must have already filled various collections, and other fragments no one had thought valuable enough to take.

Michael had gone spelunking with the brothers before and had enjoyed it. The Edgars were animated and knowledgeable, and extremely passionate about what they did. The hardest part of the experience was keeping up with the pace and the rapid nature of their conversations.

The tunnels under Blackpool were another world. The pirates and the locals had taken advantage of the natural caves that honeycombed the area, but in several places scars marked walls where openings had been enlarged with tools. Ground water seeped from the surface down the walls and contributed to the brown slurry illuminated by the headlamps. As the tunnel went deeper, the slurry
gained speed and the rush of water became more audible, echoing in the enclosed space.

Choking down on the primitive fear that awakened in him, Michael focused on finding an underground passage the train robbers might have used. No matter how else he'd tried to envision the robbery, he'd returned again and again to the simple conclusion that the evacuation of the stolen goods had to have taken place underground.

The tunnels hadn't been explored much back in those days. People must have known about pirate treasure, but townsfolk hadn't wanted to venture into the tunnels. There were too many tales of curses and vengeful ghosts.

And there's always the possibility of a cave-in.
Michael wished that thought hadn't occurred to him, especially when the tunnels were hemorrhaging rainwater.

He forced himself to continue on, focusing only on Molly and the danger she might be in.

Some distance farther, after several twists and turns that made Michael nervous about ever finding his way out of the maze of tunnels if he got separated from the Edgars, Clive stopped and shone his torch on a map he retrieved from his pocket.

“Should be near the train tracks where the robbery took place.” Clive folded up the map and put it away. “Got to say, mate, you shouldn't expect much. There's been a lot of people passed through these tunnels since 1940.”

Michael doubted that. Maybe a lot by Clive Edgars's standards, but only hardcore spelunkers would have come so far underground. Especially once it was established that no treasure existed in this area. Besides, those other explorers had been searching for treasure, not secrets.

“What are we looking for?” Neil shone his light around the dead end.

“Any point of exit would be wonderful.” Michael slipped
a thin crowbar from his backpack and stabbed it repeatedly into the walls. The sharp end sank into the muddy earth several inches. Clods tumbled to the ground.

“Careful.” Clive stepped back from the resulting splashes. “You do too much damage with that thing, you could bring the roof down on us. Today wouldn't be the day for that.”

“I need to check for walls. A door. Something.” Frustrated, Michael examined the wall more closely.

“You can still use that tool, just be more careful with it. How wide would the opening have to be?”

“Six feet. Eight feet. They would have had to truck the gold bullion out of here on some kind of cart.” Michael was certain about that. “You're sure there's no other passageway around here?”

“None we've ever been in, and we've been in them all. This one was originally used to carry coal from the train to the houses in the area.”

“To the Crowes.” Michael dropped the end of the tool into the mud.

“Them and other folks, yes. Ain't just the Crowes living up in those hills, mate.” Neil hunkered down in the muck, then gazed up at his brother. “How close would you say we are to the tracks?”

Clive shrugged. “Ten feet or so.”

An image of the derailed cars filled Michael's mind. “The train cars were scattered during the wreck. The robbers would have had to allow for that. Wherever they broke through would have to be several feet from the track.”

The Edgars retraced their steps and Michael followed. They played their torch beams over the ceiling. Michael did the same and sometimes caught rainwater in his face for his trouble. He spat out mud and had to rinse his mouth with water from the bottle he carried.

Nearly a hundred feet from the train track, Neil came to a stop and peered up. Tentatively, he reached overhead and scratched at the roof.

“What do you have?” Clive stood beside him and added his beam.

“Rock. Plenty of it. Strange we ain't noticed it before.” Neil kept picking at the earth around the rocks, exposing more and more of the surface.

“Not strange. We weren't looking overhead.”

Michael joined them and surveyed the roots thrusting through the cracks between the rocks. “The way it's overgrown, I'm surprised you noticed it now.”

“Probably wouldn't have if it hadn't been leakin' so bad.” Neil dragged a finger along one of the stones. “An' see here. This stone ain't natural. Not from around here. And it's cut, not rounded or odd-shaped.”

Michael's excitement grew as the stone's true shape emerged from the dirt.

“An' here's where timbers have rotted.” Clive dug splinters from fragile wood on either side of the tunnel. “Looks like those blocks were braced up in there at some point.”

For a few more minutes, they worked together, gradually exposing a four-foot by six-foot section of cut stones supported by timbers and metal pipe.

“Somebody cut themselves a hole here.” Clive hunkered down and drank from his canteen. “Might have been the train robbers, might not have been.” He glanced at Michael. “Ain't no way of knowing now.”

“Took care to cover it up, too.” Neil glanced around. “Might be why the police didn't catch up to the robbers that day, but somebody should have discovered tracks or something in the next few days. Folks have always come down here poking round.”

“They must have accessed another tunnel.” Gold-laden
carts would have left deep ruts in the earth that would have been easily noted. He shone his torch on the ground. “Maybe a cave under this one?”

“Gimme your stick.” Clive held out a hand and Michael surrendered the tool instantly. Carefully, Clive examined the walls, then chose the one on his left. He drove the tool into the earth, then heard it
thunk
dully. A grin split his face.

Without a word, Michael joined the Edgars brothers in tearing at the wall. In short order, they revealed a stone wall buried under a thick layer of earth. Only it began less than two feet from the bottom of the tunnel.

Clive and Neil took folding shovels from their packs and started digging. Clumps of wet earth thunked into the muddy floor, then they were able to start extracting the stones. Michael helped shift and stack them against the back wall.

“They didn't have time to dig this the day of the train robbery.” Clive beamed his light into the tunnel they'd uncovered that lay next to the one leading to the Blackpool train station. “Couldn't have dug this much before that train arrived, either.”

“So this tunnel already existed.” Michael peered into the dark interior of the newly revealed corridor. It was five feet lower than the one they were in. Only two feet overlapped.

“Yep. Probably another coal tunnel. Only somebody decided to close it down after the robbery.”

Michael wiped mud from his cheek. “Someone knew this tunnel was here the day of the heist. The people that planned this didn't just happen on it.”

“Where does it go?” Neil crowded in beside his brother.

“There's only one way to find out.” Michael slid over
the edge, getting caked with mud, and dropped into the second coal tunnel. He shone the torch ahead of him and realized the tunnel sloped even farther into the earth. Or maybe it was only his imagination.

“Surprised nobody discovered this.” Clive clambered in after him.

“I'm not.” Michael adjusted his pack's straps and started forward. “When the train robbery happened, everyone was more concerned over the deaths. All those children. And the survivors had to be made safe.”

“And there was a war on.” Neil trailed at the end of their little expedition.

“The police believed the robbers had gotten away by boat or by car.” Michael walked around a turn and kept going. His boots squished in the mud. “They didn't consider the robbers might still be in Blackpool.”

As he walked, Michael was unable to let go of the thought that the Crowe family lived in the direction he was headed. The smell of the dank earth crowded in around him and his heart thundered in his ears.

A quarter mile farther on, as near as Michael could estimate from the steps he'd counted, the tunnel came to an end. A wall of mortared stone blocked their way.

“What do we do?” Clive stood beside Michael and spoke quietly, as if someone might hear him.

“See what's on the other side.” Michael took out his folding shovel and hoped it would be enough to get through the wall.

“You realize you could be breaking into someone's home, mate.” Neil sounded nervous, but excited at the same time.

“If I do, I have a few questions to ask them.” Michael rammed the shovel's edge home and it bit deeply into the aged mortar. Chunks rained down across his boots.

“Brill.” Neil unlimbered his own shovel and got busy, as well. “They still gotta catch us, don't they? An' me an' Clive have these tunnels memorized better than anybody else ever could. Gonna be a right race if that happens.” He chuckled gleefully. “You'll need to stay up, Michael, if it comes to that.”

For a long while, only the dulled thump of the shovels striking stone filled the tunnel. Then, gradually, the stone blocks started to shift. Michael grabbed one in his gloved hands and worked it free. After that, the wall came apart easily and they stepped into a stone cellar.

To the right was a bulky furnace that had probably been used back in the day to heat the large house overhead. To the right was a nearly empty wine rack. Spiderwebs hung throughout the room.

“I really fancied we'd be starin' down the barrel of a fowlin' piece when we come through that wall. We wasn't exactly quiet.” Neil shone his torch around the cellar and walked over to the wine rack. He inspected the bottles briefly. “Nothin' much worth havin' here. Probably most of it's gone sour.”

Drawn by his own curiosity about the house and fully expecting to stumble into the Crowe ancestral home, Michael crossed to the stone steps that led up to the main house. His footsteps sounded loud in the empty room.

“Michael.” Clive called to him. “Maybe we shouldn't just show ourselves in everywhere.”

“We've come this far. I can't go back without knowing where we are. You two can turn around if you want.” Michael never broke stride.

Clive and Neil hesitated for a moment. “In for a ha'penny, in for a pound.” Michael wasn't sure which of them had spoken, but they both came up the stairs after him.

At the top, the door was unlocked. That surprised
Michael and made him even more leery at the same time. He could be stepping into a trap—then attributed the fear to his overactive imagination.

On the other side of the door, he entered a kitchen, which was just as abandoned as the cellar. He turned to the Edgars brothers.

“How many houses are empty up on this hill?”

Clive shrugged. “That's a few, mate. Them what didn't want to live here just moved away. Sometimes they just couldn't bring themselves to sell the old places, or maybe the inheritance was written so they couldn't. But a lot of people over the years haven't taken to the rumors of ghosts—like the one at Ravenhearst—or curses, and decided to leave.”

A few minutes later, Michael discovered that the whole house lay empty. Dusty white sheets covered antiquated furniture and old portraits hung on the walls.

He shone his beam on the portraits. “Recognize any of those people?”

The brothers shook their heads.

The shrill ring of Michael's mobile nearly made him jump out of his skin. Recovering, he fished his iPhone from inside his jacket and answered.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Michael.” Aleister Crowe's smug tone was unmistakable. “How are things over in Starkweather Manor?”

Michael remembered the house then. He and Molly had talked about it with the real estate agent who had shown them Thorne-Shower. They hadn't ever been inside of it. The original owners had moved out shortly after World War II, after Victor Starkweather had been arrested for stealing oil from supply ships. Starkweather had also been one of the men Oatfield-Collins linked to the robbery.

“Dismal.” Michael walked through the French doors onto the open balcony overlooking the hilltop. Rain splattered his poncho. Across the distance he could see Crowe's Nest, the ancestral home of Charles Crowe and his descendents.

“I'd been told you were exploring the tunnels.” Aleister Crowe stepped out onto the balcony on the other side of the woods. He held an umbrella overhead.

“You're very well-informed.”

“I suppose you unearthed Starkweather's little secret.”

“Maybe it wasn't Starkweather's secret alone.”

Crowe laughed. “Why don't you send your companions on their way, then come round. You and I can talk, and I'll tell you the story of my grandfather's folly.”