Page 63 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“Big spiderwebs. Maybe even a snake.”

“Oh dear,” Harriet faintly replied. “Snakes?”

Emma grabbed the lantern. “There are no snakes. And even if there were, they would be hibernating at this time of year.”

She held the lantern high, letting its rays play over the space in front of them.

“Goodness,” she murmured.

Itwasan undercroft, and a large one. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the chamber stretched almost halfway under the abbey. The floor and the walls were old but well-made brick, likely from the original construction. The brick ceiling was vaulted, held up by sturdy arches.

“This is quite something, isn’t it, Henry?” Emma commented.

Henry peered at the ceiling. “It’s an undercroft, not really a cellar at all.”

Harriet squeaked. “I thought undercrofts were used to bury the dead.”

“Aye,” said Harry. “I heard tales that some of the old monks were buried down here.”

“That is certainly not true,” Emma crisply replied. “You may go, Harry.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Knightley?”

“Mrs. Hodges will be wondering where you are. You don’t want to annoy her.”

At that verbal prod, his eyes went wide. “Yes, ma’am.”

When he turned and clattered hastily up the steps, Emma had to stifle a laugh.

“Mrs. Knightley, are you sure there are no monks buried here?” Harriet asked in an anxious voice.

“Quite certain. The monks’ graveyard is north of the abbey. It was destroyed after the Dissolution, and it’s mostly woodland now.”

Harriet grimaced. “The poor monks.”

“Indeed. Henry, make sure you stay in the light.”

“Yes, Auntie Emma,” he replied as he wandered ahead.

Emma began to walk around the perimeter of the chamber. She was pleased to see it had no visible signs of damp. Likely, it had once been used as storage space for ale and cider. Since George intended to increase production of both those commodities, this undercroft would be put to good use.

She held up the lantern. “Henry, where are you?”

He scampered back out of the gloom. “Here I am.”

His pants and shoes were now covered with dust. “Hmm. Not so clean here after all, I see.”

“Only toward the back.” Henry pointed down to the floor. “See, it’s clean here by the front.”

She turned in a slow circle, casting the lantern’s rays onto the floor. “That’s rather odd.”

“Maybe the wind comes under the door and blows the dust toward the back,” Henry suggested.

“Perhaps.” Emma glanced up to see Harriet standing by the doorway. “Are you all right, dear? I assure you, it’s perfectly dry and safe.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Knightley,” her friend replied. “It’s the smell. It’s making me queasy.”

Emma took an experimental sniff. “I suppose it’s rather musty from being closed up for so long.”