Book of Souls

By Isabelle’s reckoning, there were six fireplaces that predated 1581. Three were on the ground level, the library, the Great Hall and the dining room, and three were on the first floor-in her grandfather’s bedroom above the Great Hall and in a second and third bedroom.

They began their inspection in the library, standing before the roaring fire and wondering what to do. “Why don’t I just knock on the panels for hollow bits?” she suggested. It sounded like a perfectly good idea to him.

The ancient walnut mantel sounded solid to her knuckles. They checked the bevels of the mantelpiece for hidden latches or hinges, but it appeared to be one immovable carpentered board. The stones of the hearth floor were solid and level, and all of the mortar looked similar. The fire was still going, so they wouldn’t be checking the brickwork in the firebox for a while, but nothing stood out to cursory inspection.

The fire in the Great Hall had long died out. Lord Cantwell was half-reading, half-dozing in his chair, and he seemed nonplussed over their investigative work as they tapped and felt their way around the massive fireplace. “Really!” he snorted.

The surround was beautifully fluted and shiny with age, and the mantelpiece was a massive beveled slab, hewn from one huge timber. Isabelle hopefully tapped on the blue-and-white square tiles, which were inlaid on the surround, each one bearing a little decorative country scene, but they all had the same timbre. Will volunteered to hunch over and crab-walk into the huge firebox, where he tapped at the bricks with a poker. But for his efforts he was rewarded only with patches of soot on his shirt and trousers. Isabelle pointed the smudges out and watched in amusement as he tried to brush them away with his palm.

The three other fireplaces got the same treatment. If something were hidden in one of them, they’d need a wrecking crew to find it.

It had gotten dark. The rain had stopped, and a cold front was racing through the heart of the country, bringing frigid, howling winds. Cantwell Hall lacked central heating, and the drafty rooms were getting chilly. Louise loudly announced she would serve tea in the Great Hall. She had restarted the fire and switched on the electric heater by Lord Cantwell’s chair, then made clear she was anxious to be off for home.

Will joined Isabelle and her grandfather in a light assortment of meat-and-pickle sandwiches, shortbread biscuits, and tea. Louise scurried around, doing some last-minute chores, then inquired if they intended to stay in the Great Hall for the evening. “For a while longer,” Isabelle answered.

“I’ll light the candles then,” she offered, “as long as you’re careful to blow them out before you turn in.”

As they munched, Louise used a disposable plastic lighter to light a dozen candles throughout the room. With the wind whistling outside, the fireplace hissing, and the ancient room in its windowless gloom, the candles seemed reassuring points of light. Will and Isabelle watched Louise as she ignited the last candlestick and retreated from the room.

Suddenly, they looked at each other, and simultaneously exclaimed, “Candlesticks!”

Lord Cantwell asked if they’d gone mad, but Isabelle answered him with an urgent question. “Which of our candlesticks are sixteenth-century or earlier?”

He scratched at his fringe of hair and pointed toward the center of the room, “The pair of silver-gilt ones on the table, I should think. Believe they’re Venetian, fourteenth-century. Tell your father that if I pop off, they’re worth a few quid.”

They rushed to the candlesticks, blew them out, and removed the thick, waxy candles, placing them on a silver tray. They were pricket style, with big spikes on bowls spearing enormous five-inch-diameter candles. Each candlestick had an elaborately tooled, six-petaled base of gold-coated silver. From each base rose a central column that progressively widened out into a Romanesque tower resembling the peak-windowed spire of a church, each of the six windows rendered in blue enamel. Above each spire, the column extended into the cup and pricket of the candleholder.

“They’re light enough, they could be hollow,” Will said, “but the bases are solid.”

He closely inspected the joined segments of the complicated column. She urged him on, “Go ahead, give it a twist,” she whispered. “Turn your back to Granddad. I don’t want to give him a heart attack.”

Will wrapped his left hand around the windowed spire and tried to turn the base with his right hand, gently at first, then with more force, until his face reddened. He shook his head and put it down. “No joy.” Then he tried hers with the same maneuver. It held firm as if it were forged from a single piece of metal. He relaxed his shoulder and arm muscles when a spasm of frustration made him try one more furious twist.

The column turned.

Half a rotation, but it turned.

She whispered, “Go on!”