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Penrose found the flashlight where Hilaria had said it would be, and was instantly glad of it when the door closed behind him, plunging him into darkness. As soon as he switched it on, he noticed another torch on the floor and bent down for a closer look. The bulb was broken, as if someone had dropped it down the stairs, and he wondered if it was evidence or merely a coincidence. Already he felt claustrophobic, more so than at any time since the living suffocation of the trenches, but he tried to put the sensation from his mind. The space seemed impossibly small for someone his size, and he realised that the last time he had tried to climb these stairs, he had been a boy of twelve or thirteen. The exhilarating sense of danger he had experienced back then was very different from the deathly apprehension of today, and suddenly all such childish games felt a lifetime away.

He climbed steadily upwards, trying not to breathe in the cloying damp that seemed to cling instantly to his clothes. His mind was racing over what could possibly have led to the dreadful discovery that he was about to make, and – in his panic – he wanted to go faster than was physically possible. He cursed his own clumsiness as he slipped on one of the steps, frustrated by the sharp spiralling of the narrow staircase, and wished heartily that he’d thought to take his overcoat off before starting the ascent; the bulky winter clothes were welcome, but they impeded his progress in the confined space 168and he paused to remove his scarf and coat before going any further, his fingers fumbling with the buttons in the cold. He shivered as he took his gloves out of his pocket and left the coat on one of the window ledges, but at least he could move more freely now. He pressed on, already dreading the journey back down, and although he tried hard not to pre-empt what could have happened, he was in no doubt of the fear and dread that Richard Hartley must have felt if he had been forced up here against his will. It would be hard to imagine a more inhospitable place to die.

He flashed his torch over the steps and walls as he went, but a cursory glance revealed nothing of any help to him. There would be plenty of time later for a closer inspection; what mattered now was to establish exactly what the situation was at the top of the tower. Already he had seen enough to know that there was very little chance of finding the vicar alive – depending on how long he had been there, the cold alone would have been sufficient to kill him – but it was amazing how forcefully despair and outrage could keep an unrealistic hope alive. At last he was nearing the top, and a change in the light as he made the final turn told him that the door at the head of the staircase had been left open, even before he felt the icy blast of air on his face. He slowed his pace, wary of the snow that had blown into the tower and made the steps even more perilous than they usually were. Bracing himself against the cold and the inevitable sadness, Penrose put the flashlight down on the top step and pulled himself out through the doorway.