Page 57 of A Literary Liaison
The knock on the door awoke him from the gloom he felt,introducing Hereford. His friend walked in with the confidence of a crane, then stopped abruptly.
“Did someone pass away overnight?”
Edgar waved away the remark. Hereford, noticing the letter on the desk, brightened. “I see the source of your sour expression. So, Miss Lovelace does it again.”
Irked by Hereford’s brightness, Edgar stood and walked to the tunnel door.
“Pay attention, Hereford,” he said as he demonstrated the maneuvers necessary to open the hidden door.
“Brilliant! Who constructed this?”
“My steward. He’s sworn to secrecy.”
“Well, we know a place to bury him if he doesn’t keep his mouth sealed,” Hereford said jovially as he entered the passage.
The narrow tunnel was damp and musty, barely wide enough for a man to crawl through. Edgar led the way, his fine coat collecting dirt as he inched forward on his elbows. Behind him, Hereford suppressed a cough, the dust thick in the air.
“I say, Lancaster,” Hereford whispered, his voice reverberating softly in the confined space, “we’ve done a remarkably fine job excavating this tunnel.”
Edgar’s response was muffled, his face close to the earthen floor. “Indeed, I have. You were nowhere near.”
“And observe the precision of it all—right angles at every turn, as if carved by a master mason.”
“You may direct your praises to my steward for that particular feat.”
“I may have to entice him away to construct my own subterranean passage.”
“And, pray tell, what purpose would that serve?”
“To sequester myself from my future bride, naturally.”
“Ah, and who might the fortunate lady be?”
“That, my friend, remains a mystery even to me.”
“Your nuptials seem doomed from the outset.”
“Aye, I approach the altar with no small measure of trepidation.”
“Patience, old friend. You may yet mature into the role of husband.”
Edgar’s progress halted as his outstretched hand met a wooden panel. With a soft click that seemed to echo their surreptitious purpose, it swung open, revealing a small chamber beyond. The two gentlemen extricated themselves from the narrow passage, straightening to their full height in the low-ceilinged space.
With practiced ease, Edgar located the matches and lantern positioned by the door. As the flame flickered to life, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls, he moved with barely contained excitement toward a set of shelves lining the far wall.
Hereford, brushing the dirt from his once-immaculate trousers, muttered, “Good God, Lancaster, I do hope this tunnel justifies the lamentable state of my attire.”
“Oh, it does indeed,” Edgar replied, his voice low with conspiratorial glee. “Cast your eyes upon this, my friend.”
The shelves before them were laden with neatly stacked pamphlets and broadsheets, their titles barely visible in the flickering lamplight. As Hereford leaned in to examine them more closely, his eyes widened with shock.
“By Jove, Lancaster,” he breathed, “you’ve been busy, haven’t you? ‘The People’s Charter: A Call for Universal Suffrage,’” he read. “‘Irish Repeal: The Case for Self-Governance.’ Lancaster, these are not the erotic tales we discussed. These are…”
“Highly controversial and potentially treasonable,” Edgar finished, nodding. “Exactly. Which is why we must exercise the utmost discretion.”
Hereford picked up another pamphlet, its cover adorned with a stark illustration of a workhouse. “‘The New Poor Law: A Treatise onInstitutional Cruelty.’ My word, if these were discovered…”
“It would mean ruin,” Edgar said grimly. “For us, and for the authors. Many of these writers are respected members of Society, secretly sympathetic to reform. If their identities were revealed…”
