They headed to the staircase – Miranda gladly skewering the strangely passive Reginald every chance she got. She was expecting more of a fight, but was glad that he was accepting of her abuse. She didn’t question his behavior, putting it down to him knowing that he more than deserved the onslaught.
Miranda followed Reginald through the thick door, noting with annoyance its mournful admonishment of the pair using it for access. The sound was more analogous to the final groan of a long-suffering patient. It harkened back to haunted houses and ghosts – the very thoughts that Miranda had recently banished from her mind. The sorrowful note was dredging up those fears. She could well imagine the next noise to be chains being dragged along the ground, or a knight still in his coat of armor batting the wall with his mace.
When the door finally shuddered closed, it spitefully took the light with it. Reginald turned on a small comforting light that shone down on stone steps. Reginald went first, taking inordinate care in navigating the old staircase. Miranda noted the precautions taken to ensure a safe journey down. She was well past the age when a spill down the stairs on her backside could be shaken off with childish laughter.
She wasn’t used to conforming to someone’s lead, but the unevenness of the footing, the looseness of the stone, and the shaking banister all assured Miranda that Reginald knew best. She complied and followed suit, slowing her pace to a crawl as she inched her way down the clumsy, claustrophobic passageway.
Miranda rocked a bit with each footstep. Although the stairs appeared uniform, it wasn’t until you tried to descend them that their unwieldy crookedness was discovered. She kept her hand firmly clenched on the wooden frame built to support the treacherous climb, but didn’t put much faith in it preventing a tumble. It seemed as solid as a matchstick cathedral. The fact the temperature went down with each step taken was not helping in any way. If Miranda had thought it cold upstairs, the cellar was like wading into a bath of ice. It was as if she dipped her toe in an ice pond and kept going until completely immersed. She wasn’t a member of the Polar Bear Club and preferred her baths warm and steamy. By the time she reached the bottom step, she was tense from the effort taken to surmount the obstacles – the treacherous footing and the merciless cold.
The hearty, hot stew consumed a few minutes ago was a thing of the past, as was the raging fire still going strong in the upstairs fireplace. They both had fortified her, but obviously not for long. She was forlorn and abandoned of any comfort. Even the lighting seemed to be working against her. The meager ceiling lamp at the top of the landing was too weak to properly light the entire staircase. She stood unable to see into the utter blackness of the estate’s basement. She made due until Reginald maneuvered his way to a light switch. He knew where they were located and went ahead.
“
Why on earth is it not right here on this wall? Seems very stupid to have placed it so far away!” she complained.
Reginald huffed in response. He was busily feeling his way along the wall. He’d only gone a few steps when Miranda was hit with a blast of light that more than adequately lit up the stairwell – and from what Miranda could see – the whole of the cellar. True they needed light, but Miranda had questioned the necessity for turning on every single one.
“
You installed spotlights? Were you expecting a prison escape? Or do you just like to blind those that venture down to this godforsaken section of this condemned building?”
“
Oh, you just think you know everything, don’t you? I don’t know who appointed you king of the world, but decisions other than the ones you come up with are valid. And yet, if it’s not done your way, you just complain, complain, complain!”
Miranda shivered and grabbed her sweater tightly around her. She didn’t like this part of the house. It was even more inhospitable than upstairs. There might as well have been a sign posted in the stone that said, “No trespassing,” since that was the sentiment conveyed.
Miranda took a look around at the space demanding to be left alone. With the addition of light, she finally could properly see the layout of the area. The cellar appeared to be one huge square, flanked on all sides with an endless number of doors. Which room housed the collectibles was anybody’s guess.
“
Which door is it? There are so many?”
“
The one to your right.”
“
What are the rest?”
“
Just other storage areas – not quite as large.”
“
Is anything in them other than the bones of enemies? This was a dungeon, wasn’t it? I swear I can feel an enemy presence still here!”
“
There you go, firing off your mouth and imagination. Yes, of course it was a dungeon. During that time, titled people were judge and jury. Luckily times have changed and we don’t keep enemies in our basement – nor mete out punishment with torture devices although I suspect
you
would love to bring that back in vogue.”
“
Oh, you are rapacious at doling out that wit you think you possess! Too bad it doesn’t exist.”
“
And neither does any telltale sign of prisoners that may or may not have been held here centuries ago. To answer your legitimate question, most of the rooms are empty, but I think some act as silent guardians for some other less successful portraits of the Weatherly clan.”
Miranda saw the opening and attacked. She wasn’t over Reggie scaring her.
“
Oh, you mean, the Weatherly grandchildren that never existed because they all died in some blight? Weren’t they all savaged by a bad case of frostbite that attacked their noses? Didn’t it make their noses all fall off into the snow where they were left to be eaten by spring vultures?”
“
I give up again, Miranda! I apologize once more for that ridiculous story I told you. I was just testing to see if it worked. You know, your father helped me concoct it.”
“
It’s just like you to shift the blame on someone not here to defend himself. I doubt father had anything to do with it, but in any event, he didn’t tell you to use it to scare me did he?”
“
No …” Reginald admitted rather begrudgingly. Miranda really did know the weak places to hit any argument. She would have made a damned fine attorney had she chosen to enter his noble profession.
As they walked towards the room where the collection was kept, Reginald stumbled on a loose bit of stone. She felt a pang of regret for her harsh cross-examination. He swiftly grabbed at the wall and swore at the crumbling mortar beneath his feet. She decided then and there to let up on the whip. She would never forgive herself if she distracted him to the point of falling due to being wrong-footed. She gave a roguish giggle.
“
You know, that story does sound so like father!”
They seemed to have gotten past the rough patch – the rest of the stonework in the corridor seemed solid and even. She clutched at her clothing, protectively girding it around her.
“
My God, I thought upstairs was bad! This place is like a meat locker! Are you sure you’re not keeping venison down here?”
“
No. No game meat that I’m aware of.” He unlatched the door on the right and entered. “Just these.”
Miranda came in behind him, peering at the European treasures for only a short time before the lights in the basement flickered on and off. It was disquieting to be momentarily tossed into an abyss. Miranda collected herself – readying herself to launch into another string of complaints.
“
What’s that? Don’t tell me the wiring’s faulty? It would be so unusual to find that sort of thing in England. Now in America we have real lights that you can keep going 24 hours a day!”
“
Keep talking, young lady! You’re doing my work for me because that’s precisely how you Americans got into that energy crisis of yours. You Americans and your penchant for wasting electricity!”
Miranda smiled. He had her there. She walked into the room as the lights continued to blink their angry welcome. She recognized many of the articles, but some were a surprise. She spotted what looked like a Fabergé egg on the long wooden table. She walked over to it and picked it up for closer inspection. She had no idea where it came from.
“
What’s this?” she queried while examining the tiny egg.
“
And you purport to be an expert? Hmph!” Reginald snorted.
Miranda closed one eye and arched a brow.
“
You know the temperature is just perfect for me leaving your body down here. It would never be found. There would never be a smell and this place is like a maze so you could just dwell down here in your little basement kingdom for all eternity! Undisturbed! How’s that for a ghost story?”
She more closely inspected the egg paying careful attention to the hallmark. Everything had a ring of authenticity and yet she’d never seen the red egg catalogued. She carefully pushed the miniature red egg open. Inside was a ruby heart. One tear-drop was beneath it. The way it was shaped and positioned, it appeared the heart had shed a bloody tear.
“
Why is this here? Did father have this authenticated?”
Reginald buttoned up his vest and placed his ledger down after first clearing a space on the wooden credenza.
“
Evidently, babies were switched in the hospital since you have not inherited one iota of your father’s intelligence. Can’t you see that it’s a fake? A very good fake, but an imitation, nonetheless. I’m surprised at you, Miranda. Can’t even do one thing right.”
Miranda ignored the insults. She kept focused on the egg. It fascinated her and she’d never before been captured with an imitation anything. Her credit card statements proved that to be true.
“
Are you sure?
“
Quite. Asked him myself when I saw it here. Couldn’t have something that valuable in a place like this. It would belong in a vault.”
“
But when did he purchase it? Was it represented as a Fabergé?”
“
Have no idea. It appeared one day. I’ve suspected ever since that he bought it hoping for a monetary coup. Used to keep it in a cabinet down here. Hidden away. I saw him admiring it one day. Either that or ruing the day he threw good money out the window for it. After his death, I took it out of the cabinet because he did say it was part of this collection. I don’t know why he kept it locked up and never exhibited it. You can see that due to its precise workmanship, it still has a very modest value. Not valuable, in the way a real Fabergé would be, but then who am I telling that to? Even you know that. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about hiding my body down here!” he blasted, moving away and wagging his finger at her. Miranda lost interest in the beautiful forgery and confronted him. Her chin was up, daring him to take a poke. He took her gently by the shoulders instead giving her nose a slight tweak. “I could have you arrested for threatening an old barrister. Now do you want more charges levied against you or are you ready to work?”
“
Work!” she answered enthusiastically. She was ready to begin, but her mind was tearing into what Reginald had said about the imitation priceless treasure. She suspected Reginald was right about her father having been taken in by it. Most likely, he’d bought the forgery thinking it was real. He’d probably thought he’d made a killing, but then he’d found out it wasn’t genuine. Miranda knew her father better than anyone. She knew that that alone would be a reason for omitting it from the collection – and for never telling her about it. She could well imagine he’d tucked it away – it was his secret shame that an old treasure hunter like her father had been taken to the cleaners. She smiled picturing her father caught with his pants down. It didn’t happen very often. She casually looked up at the overhead lighting. They seemed to be working steadily now. She hoped things stayed that way. They had a lot to get done, and the lights needed to cooperate for them to accomplish their goal.
She walked over to a pair of Victorian panels kneeling down to examine them.
“
These are lovely! Let’s start here.”
“
Fine,” Reginald replied opening the ledger. “Oh, drat!”
“
What?”
“
I completely forgot. Your contemptuous behavior towards me made me totally forget that there is another ledger that your father used for this part of the collection. You know there are just so many pages in one book.”
“
Why you are a musty bingo brain, aren’t you?” Miranda glibly fired – getting up and smoothing her dress. “I suppose you left the book at home or in your office? How am I supposed to send this collection out on Monday – on schedule and as promised? I can’t and it’s all due to your mistake!”