The staircase descended about twenty feet and had been built with a railing. At the bottom the floor was composed of what appeared to be old flagstones, worn smooth possibly by the ancient traffic of the Roman city. The passage was at least ten feet wide and the walls were formed of rough and broken stones though some of it had fallen to piles of rubble, exposing the dark earth behind. Matthew judged the direction from the gazebo to Lash’s mansion to be to the northwest, and he began following the lantern’s light.

He came across three small pieces of coal on the floor that must’ve been caught in the constables’ clothes. So far, so good, but not far enough nor good enough.

It was soon apparent that he might not be striding along Roman roads, but instead following passageways in what could have been an ancient fortress. His light showed cavernous chambers on both sides. Here and there stood columns of stones that rose up to the ceiling. He was aware of the shrill squeaking of rats scampering away from beneath his boots, and he mused that the rodents had no respect for the glory of Rome.

He reached a fork in the passageways and took the one leading off to the left, thinking that was a more northwesterly heading. Within half a minute he came to a solid stone wall. He retraced his path, took the other passage and sped his pace, for if the drivers regained their courage and got back to the coach or the house before he did, all was lost. He was wondering also if Lash wouldn’t use his second private coach to soon take Lioness, Merda, Krakowski and Montague back to their inns or wherever they were lodged, and in so doing the halted coach and Bogen’s body would be found.

It all added up to the fact that he had to hurry.

The passageway narrowed and its ceiling dropped lower, nearly brushing the top of Matthew’s head. The rats were bolder here and made hissing noises of anger beneath his boots. He passed a chamber where the rats were nearly climbing over themselves to get down into what looked to be an old well or something of the sort, and Matthew reasoned the bodies of the first constable, the loud-mouthed Victor and Dippen Nack—God rest a hopeless bully—had been thrown in there and served to feed the rodents as had RakeHell Lizzie’s other victims.

He came to a door.

Now before him was the real test. He put the lantern down and took hold of the door’s handle.

He turned it.

Or tried to turn it.

Because it would not turn.

The door was locked.