Hatless, Guy’s head almost brushed the ceiling. Owen stepped in after him and asked, “What is this? A cellar?”

“Coal cellar, possibly,” said Guy.

The room was chilly and smelled faintly of rot, the stones holding in the damp. Catherine studied the ground, hoping to catch the shine of glass, a metal casing. Instead, Guy’s lantern flashed upon soot marks on the wall, bits of coal left in the corners. A hatch door was set into the floor. There was a ring pull handle, heavy and rusted. Catherine crouched down, bringing her hand to it, feeling the chill of the metal through her glove. She gave the handle a tug, but the door wouldn’t shift.

“Here,” said Guy, putting his lantern down. “We shall try it together.”

He took hold of the ringed handle alongside her. She glanced at his face—so close to hers, his cheeks flushed from the cold—before fixing her attention on the door. They pulled hard, and the door swung free, so suddenly Guy lost his balance, tumbling against the stone wall behind them. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head.

“Are you all right?” Catherine asked.

“Fine,” he said with a grimace.

She looked away from him, peering down at the hole in the floor. The light of the lantern didn’t offer much illumination; there was a ladder at the opening, and below it, darkness.

“I hope you don’t expect me to climb down there,” said Owen.

Guy stood up, dusting off his hands. “I’ll go,” he said. “It’s likely another part of the cellar, a storeroom.”

Catherine reached down and pushed at the ladder, testing it. It held firm, but she said, “I don’t know, Guy. How far down does this ladder go? What if it breaks?”

“Then you’ll have to rescue me.” He smiled brightly.

Owen said, “Oh, goodness.”

After Guy took the first couple of rungs of the ladder, Catherine passed him the lantern, the light withdrawing from the room as he went farther down. She shivered, knowing that if he dropped it, they might be left in the dark.

A sharp, splintering crack sent her heart hammering. Guy let out a short cry, the light swinging wildly down below. Catherine’s hands gripped the edge of the opening.

“Guy!”

“I’m all right,” he called. “The last rung just broke. I’m at the bottom now.”

“What’s down there?” asked Owen.

“Not much of anything.” Guy coughed. “Lots of dust. There’s some old crates.” He moved away from the ladder, his voice growing muffled. There came a rasp of wood, a thud, as though he was searching the boxes.

Yet there was another sound—quiet but unmistakable—from beyond the church walls. Footfalls, boots squelching through mud. Catherine stood, her gaze flitting to the doorway, to the darkness of the field past the missing piece of wall. A light flashed between the graves, and her blood went cold.

“Miss Daly?” said Owen.

She turned back to him. “Get down there,” she told him, pointing to the ladder. “There’s a watchman just outside.”