Read Online Death at Rottingdean by Robin Paige - Free Book Online Page A

first thought of when we were at Bliss Cottage in Vermont,” Kipling said nonchalantly. “I’ve gone as far as to make him the son of a private in an Irish regiment, born in India and mixed up with native life. I’ve christened him Kim, although I haven’t been able to think of anything for him to do except trek around India having adventures.”
    Aunt Georgie chuckled. “Fashioned after our very own Paddy, I wonder? Well, if you observe the child for very long, you won’t lack for things for your Kim to get up to. But shouldn’t you have a plot of some sort?”
    â€œWhat was good enough for Cervantes—” Kipling began, but his aunt cut him off.
    â€œDon’t Cervantes me,” she said tartly. “I remember your mother remarking once that you couldn’t make a plot to save your soul.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Now, dear, hadn’t you better fetch the candle?”
    A few minutes later, the four of them—Kipling, Charles, Aunt Georgie, and Kate, were making their cautious way down a narrow flight of worm-eaten wooden stairs into a large, irregularly shaped, cavelike cellar carved out of the gray-white chalk on which the house was built. At the foot of the steep stairs, Kipling held the flickering candle over his head, and Kate saw that the walls, which were not at all square or straight, went back a long distance into the gloomy shadows.
    â€œThe tunnel entered at this point,” Kipling said, going to a tier of wooden shelves. “But there is no access, you see—it is entirely blocked.”
    Behind the shelves, Kate could make out the arched outline of an opening that had been filled in with bricks and plastered over. She turned and looked around, thinking that Aunt Georgie was entirely right. The setting suggested all kinds of ideas for a story, or perhaps even a book. The present cellar contained only the detritus of previous households—broken chairs, a dirty piece of carpet, rusty tools—but she fancied she could see it as it must have been a hundred years before, filled with wooden kegs of fine brandy and boxes of cigars and French lace. She could imagine, as well, a gang of crafty smugglers, led by the man who had built the house, gathering to celebrate their latest success by tapping into one of the precious kegs.
    â€œYou’ve explored all the nooks and crannies, I suppose,” Charles said thoughtfully. Kate looked at him curiously. He seemed to be sniffing the air.
    â€œActually, no,” Kipling said. “We’ve been here less than a month, and with John’s arrival...” The candle guttered and he shielded it with his hand. “Carrie’s right, y‘know,” he said uneasily. “This place is in no fit state. P’rhaps I’d just better lock up the door and declare the cellar out of bounds.”
    At Kate’s elbow, Aunt Georgie spoke firmly. “The tunnel is blocked here,” she said, wrapping her shawl more securely around her. “But that does not mean that there are no other openings in this cellar—or that all the, openings are blocked. The tunnels are said to have led from the cliffs to every consequential house in the village. To the vicarage, where the Reverend Dr. Hooker was the watchman for the local smuggling ring—and to Seabrooke House, of course,” she added, turning to Kate. “I was told that one of the Seabrookes—Richard, I think it was—earned quite a good living by hauling goods to Falmer and Lewes. His brother was in league with the Hawkhurst Gang, and was responsible for arranging capital to finance their endeavors.”
    â€œThat’s very interesting,” Kate said, thinking of the cellar below Seabrooke House, almost as large as this one, and the spilled brandy and evidence of bottles that had been taken away. “I shall have a look for evidence of a tunnel in our cellar.”
    â€œAnd the ghost?”