jamming before he’d managed even a quarter turn. At last he seemed to make up his mind and returned to the second key he’d picked out.
“This is the only key on the bunch that has any give at all, so I’ll try it again with a bit more force, and if it breaks, well, we’ll just have to get the locksmith in. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I said, and he began to force the key.
I found I was wincing preemptively as I watched him apply pressure, first gently, and then harder, and at last so hard that I could see the shaft of the key bending slightly, the round bow at the top twisting, twisting . . .
“Stop!” I cried, just as Jack gave an exclamation of satisfaction and there was a noisy scrape and click, and the key completed the full turn.
“Got it!” He stood, wiping the lubricant off his hands, and then turned to me with a mock courtly bow. “D’you wish to do the honors, milady?”
“No!” The word was out before I could think better of it, and then I forced a laugh. “I mean . . . I don’t mind. It’s up to you. But I warn you, if there’s rats, I’ll scream.”
It was a lie. I’m not afraid of rats. I’m not afraid of very much, normally. And I felt like the worst kind of female cliché sheltering behind the big strong man. But Jack had not lain there, night after night, listening to that slow, stealthy creak . . . creak . . . above his head.
“I’ll take one for the team, then,” he said with a very small wink. And he twisted the handle, and the door opened.
I don’t know what I expected. A staircase disappearing into the darkness. A corridor hung with cobwebs. I found I was holding my breath as the door swung back, peering over Jack’s shoulder.
Whatever I expected, it wasn’t what was there. It was just another closet. Very dusty, and badly finished so that you could see the gaps in the plasterboard, and much smaller and shallower than the one where I’d hung my clothes, but a closet nonetheless. An empty bar hung, slightly lopsided, about six inches down from the ceiling as if awaiting hangers and clothes.
“Huh,” Jack said. He tossed the keys on the bed, looking thoughtful. “Well, that’s weird.”
“Weird? You mean, why lock up a perfectly usable closet?”
“Well, I suppose so, but what I really meant is, the draught.”
“The draught?” I echoed stupidly, and he nodded.
“Look at the floor.”
I looked where he pointed. Across the floorboards were streaks, where a breeze had plainly forced dust through the narrow gaps, and looking more closely at the stained and dusty plasterboard I could see the same thing. When I put my hand to the gap, there was a faint cool breeze, and the same dank smell that I had noticed coming from the keyhole last night when I had peered through, into the darkness.
“You mean . . .”
“There is something back there. But someone boarded it up.”
He moved past me, and began rummaging in his tool kit, and suddenly, I was not at all sure that I wanted to do this.
“Jack, I don’t think— I mean, Sandra might—”
“Ah, she won’t mind. I’ll board it back up more neatly if it comes to it, and she’ll have a working closet instead of a locked door.”
He took out a small crowbar. I opened my mouth to say something else—something about it being my bedroom, about the mess, about—
But it was too late. There was a crunching noise, and a slab of plasterboard toppled forward into the room so that Jack only just got out of the way. He picked it up, carefully avoiding the rusty nails that were sticking out of the edges, and propped it against the side of the closet, and I heard his voice, echoing now, as he let out a long, satisfied “Ah . . .”
“Ah, what?” I said anxiously, trying to peer past him, but his big frame filled the doorway, and all I could see was darkness.
“Have a look,” he said, stepping back. “See for yourself. You were right.”
And there it was. Just as I had imagined. The wooden treads. The swags of cobwebs. The staircase winding up into darkness.
I found my mouth was dry, and my throat clicked as I swallowed.
“Do you have a torch?” Jack asked, and I shook my head, feeling suddenly unable to speak. He shrugged.