“How do you know?”
“Because the latch is broken from the inside to make it appear that way.”
Caleb turned.
She was examining the wall beside the fireplace.
“There’s a draft.”
“So?”
“Not from the window.”
She stepped closer to the carved timber paneling.
Her fingers moved along a seam.
Then pressed.
A narrow section of wall swung inward.
Behind it was darkness.
Abernathy stared.
“You built secret corridors?”
Caleb looked equally astonished.
“No.”
Beatrice slowly raised the lantern.
Dust coated the hidden passage floor.
Except for one fresh line of footprints.
Caleb’s face darkened.
“This house was built by Amos Vale.”
“Martin’s father?” Bee asked.
Caleb nodded.
The implication struck them all at once.
Martin knew passages through Ridge View that Caleb himself did not know existed.
And Martin had just disappeared with the man trying to steal his mines.
Caleb entered the passage.
Beatrice followed.
He turned.
“Bee.”
It was the first time he had called her that.
Neither seemed to notice.
“Go downstairs.”
“No.”
“Why must you fight every sentence I speak?”
“Because half of them are foolish.”
Abernathy cleared his throat.
“Perhaps save courtship for after we survive.”
Caleb nearly shot him.
The passage led downward.
The air became colder.
After several turns, they reached a narrow staircase behind the main library wall.
Voices drifted upward.
Martin Vale.
And Pendleton.
“…sign tomorrow regardless.”
“He knows.”
“He suspects.”
“He knows.”
“Then we accelerate.”
Caleb raised a hand.
They listened.
Martin said, “Whitmore’s stubborn. Always has been.”
Pendleton replied, “Men become less stubborn when their assets catch fire.”
Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face.
Martin continued.
“The powder store?”
“No. Too obvious. The old ventilation tunnel. A small blast brings down the north shaft. Thirty men dead, perhaps forty. Whitmore’s credit collapses before the funerals are finished.”
Caleb surged forward.
Bee caught his sleeve.
He looked back furiously.
She put a finger to her lips.
Below them, Pendleton continued.
“By February, the bank calls his notes. Abernathy withdraws. We purchase the company through Harker’s syndicate.”
Martin laughed.
“And my share?”
“Ten percent.”
“You promised fifteen.”
“You are in no position to renegotiate.”
Beatrice saw Caleb’s hand tighten around the revolver.
Martin had been with him for twelve years.
Caleb had paid for Martin’s mother’s surgery. Given him a house. Trusted him with hundreds of men.
Betrayal was one thing.
But plotting to bury miners alive for money was another.
Caleb stepped into the corridor below.
“Fifteen percent seems cheap for your soul, Martin.”
Both men spun.
Martin drew first.
The gunshot exploded in the narrow passage.
Caleb staggered.
“Caleb!”
Beatrice screamed.
He hit the wall.
His revolver fell.
Martin aimed again.
Beatrice did not think.
She swung the iron poker with both hands.
It struck Martin’s forearm with a sickening crack.
His pistol fired into the ceiling.
Pendleton ran.
Abernathy tackled him awkwardly around the waist.
The Boston financier and the railroad executive crashed through a stack of old crates like two drunken bears.
Caleb grabbed Martin by the coat.
Blood darkened Caleb’s upper arm, but he drove Martin into the stone wall.
Once.
Twice.
Martin sagged.
Pendleton clawed for Abernathy’s throat.
Beatrice seized a crate lid and brought it down across Pendleton’s backside.
