A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Deanna Raybourn (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📖

“Where does it lead?” I asked.

“The wine cellars, miss,” the cook replied promptly. “Mrs. Trengrouse is down there now, but ’tis proper dark, it is. Mind you take a lantern.”

I busied myself lighting one since Stoker was still ravishing his sandwich. At his encouragement, I led the way through the little door and down the flight of stone steps. There was a pool of warm yellow light at the bottom, and I could see Mrs. Trengrouse with a sturdy-looking man in the rough clothes of the islanders, working together to fill a large wine barrel from a smaller cask.

She looked up as we descended. “Good morning to you both. Come to explore the tunnels again, Mr. Templeton-Vane? Did you meet Mr. Pengird yesterday when you gentlemen rode about the island?”

Stoker swallowed the last of his sandwich and inclined his head. “I did indeed. Manager of the vineyard, I believe?”

The fellow nodded. “Aye, sir. That I am.”

“Mr. Pengird has just brought the first pressing of this year’s grapes,” she told us. “We have no fine vintages of the island wines, I’m afraid. Everything is mixed together and let ferment. Mr. Malcolm believes that the dregs of the old wine give the new wine character.”

“Right he is,” Mr. Pengird said stoutly. “We’ve made wine in these parts since the days of Elizabeth. The older the cask and the older the leavings from the mature wine, the better the new wine. And this year’s grapes are a rowdy bunch, they are. Just you taste.” He put down the small cask and drew off two tiny glasses, handing one each to Stoker and to me.

“Will you not taste, Mrs. Trengrouse?” Stoker asked kindly.

Before she could reply, the vintner gave a bark of laughter. “Not our Mrs. Trengrouse,” he said with a jovial nod towards the housekeeper. “She’s teetotal, she is, sober as a judge.”

Mrs. Trengrouse shook her head. “It is not fitting for a housekeeper to indulge in spirits, Mr. Pengird.”

He laughed again, urging us to drink. Mrs. Trengrouse gave us a sideways look but said nothing. The grape juice, unmatured and unfermented, tasted harsh and sour to me, but Mr. Pengird helped himself to a portion from my unwiped glass.

“That’ll put hair on your chest, it will, missus,” he promised.

Mrs. Trengrouse gave him a quelling look. “I can finish the rest of the cask, Mr. Pengird,” she said. “I am sure you have other tasks awaiting your attention.”

“Oh, not me, missus,” he said with a broad smile. “I’ve only these casks to bring up for the master. He does love the first tasting,” he added, pouring out a little more into the glass he held and finishing it with a pronounced smack of the lips. “’Tis sweet this year,” he said with a wink, “on account of my Anna and her dainty feet.”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked faintly.

“We tread the grapes here, missus, just as in the old days. Some vineyards use a stone, but not for us, no. We choose the fairest maidens on the island to have a go at pressing the grapes, and this year my Anna had the honor of the first pressing.”

Stoker and I exchanged slightly queasy glances. Little wonder Mrs. Trengrouse did not drink the local wines! She darted us an apologetic little look while she stuck the cork firmly into the large barrel and handed the small cask back to Mr. Pengird. “Thank you, Mr. Pengird. I will be certain to convey to the master what a treat this year’s vintage will be.”

“You do that, missus,” he said with another wink. He gathered his little casks and moved to the far wall, to an iron gate set in the stone.

Stoker took the lantern from me. “I wanted to show Miss Speedwell the tunnels, Mr. Pengird. If you are leaving that way, we will go with you.”

“Aye, sir,” said Mr. Pengird before he turned to me. “Now, you see, miss, the whole island is riddled with them. Natural caverns, they is. The first fellows used them for living in, until the castle were built and the houses and the village proper. Then the tunnels were put to use as a place to hide away in case of invasion. More than once a ship of villains landed on these shores and sailed clean away again when they found not a soul on the whole of the island.”

“What are they used for now?” I asked.

“Lord love you, missus, they’m used for nothing at all save keeping a man dry when the rains come and he has to get from one part of the island to another.”

“Where precisely do the tunnels go?” Stoker put in.

Mr. Pengird tipped his head, scratching his broad belly. “Well, now, let me have a think. There’s the great tunnel that led from the main beach to the village, but that’s been wrecked for seventy year or more. Caved in, it did, and killed a few good men and ruined a batch of Napoléon’s best brandy, it did.” He gave me a wink. “Them days, the tunnels were used for smuggling, and it’s no crime to tell it now, for the present master would never hold with such doings. But his grandfather weren’t so proper, and he liked him a bit of French brandy and some silks for his missus. Many’s the load that were brought through the tunnels in those days.”

“But that tunnel has been blocked for the better part of a century?” Stoker prompted.

“Aye, sir. That leaves the two small tunnels, one from the village up to the castle, and one from the castle down to the western beach, the one that overlooks the Sisters,” he explained.

Mrs. Trengrouse lifted her own lantern from a peg on the wall. “I will leave the gate unlocked so you may come back up this way when you have finished.”

Mr. Pengird scratched himself again. “I’ll lead you to where the tunnels branch and then you can find your way,” he told us. “Farewell, Mrs. T.!”

She bade him