Vale drove the crowbar into the cut line before Mercer could stop him.
The brick gave with a dull crack. Dust fell across his hands.
“Step away,” Mercer said.
He struck again. “You heard him.”
“I heard a voice coming through a speaker.”
“And you heard the door.”
“That was the building settling.”
“Buildings don’t cut their own walls.”
The third blow split the mortar. A section of brick shifted inward, revealing a black gap no wider than a finger. From inside came the smell of wet wool and old machine oil.
Mercer took the crowbar from him. “Now you step away.”
Vale looked at her. “You wanted the truth.”
“I want you alive long enough to give it.”
She wedged the bar into the gap and levered. The concealed door opened with a groan that traveled through the mill’s iron skeleton. Junie stood behind them, one hand pressed over her mouth. The red light on her recorder was dark, but Vale noticed her thumb resting against its side.
Beyond the door was a room no larger than a railway carriage. The walls had been painted white once. Damp had turned them the color of old teeth. A narrow table stood beneath a high window, and on the table waited three things: a brass candlestick, a red glass marble, and a cassette recorder with its lid open.
There were no bodies. No blood. The absence did not comfort Vale. Jonah had always understood that an empty room could accuse more completely than a corpse.
Mercer entered first, weapon raised. She swept the light over the corners, under the table, across a second door at the rear. It was bolted from this side.
“Clear,” she said.
Vale followed. His gaze fixed on the wall opposite the table.
Someone had written there in black pencil:
YOU LEFT ONE THING OUT.
Beneath it, in smaller letters:
THE INVITATION.
The word struck him harder than the crowbar had. He remembered the eastern stairs. The child under the coat. The soft scrape of a shoe above him. His own voice rising into the gallery—not frightened, not even angry. Commanding.
Watch properly.
He had thought the sentence ended there. It had not. Before it, he had said something else.
Next
Vale has found proof that another person opened Marrowick’s hidden room, but the second door may lead to the accomplice—or into Jonah’s carefully prepared fourth murder.
Vale crossed the room and picked up the cassette. A strip of masking tape marked it with one word: MARROWICK.
Mercer caught his wrist. “Don’t touch it.”
“He put it here for me.”
“He put it here for whoever found it.”
“Then you play it.”
She held his gaze, then took the cassette and inserted it into the recorder. The machine whined. For several seconds, there was only a low mechanical hum and the distant drip of water.
Then Vale heard himself.
The recording was thin with age, but the voice was unmistakable. Younger. Smoother. Full of the confidence he had mistaken for courage.
“Come closer if you want to see.”
A child breathed somewhere near the microphone.
Vale gripped the edge of the table.
“You heard me,” the younger voice continued. “So watch properly.”
The child said nothing.
“You can stay there, or you can learn.”
A pause. Then the scrape of knees against concrete.
Mercer looked at Vale. The recorder continued.
“What do you see?” his younger voice asked.
Another pause.
“Tell me.”
The child answered so quietly that the tape nearly swallowed the words.
“A man making a room.”
Vale shut his eyes.
The tape clicked. His younger self laughed once, impatiently.
“Not a man. An author.”
The recording ended.
No one spoke. Water ticked behind the walls.
Mercer removed the cassette. “You told an eleven-year-old to watch you rehearse a murder.”
“It wasn’t a murder.”
“That is not what I said.”
“He came toward me.”
“You invited him.”
Vale looked at the candlestick. “I didn’t know who he was.”
“You knew he was a child.”
The shame was no longer an inward thing. Mercer had placed it between them, solid and visible, and he found that he preferred it there. It had been rotting in him for twenty years. Perhaps exposure was the only form of preservation left.
The speaker above the door clicked on.
Jonah said, “You remember the rest now.”
Mercer lifted her gun toward the ceiling. “Where are you?”
“Near enough.”
Vale searched the room. The high window looked over the gallery, but its glass was painted black from the outside. The rear door had no handle. A thin copper wire disappeared into a hole beside the table.
He pulled the candlestick toward him. Under its base, carved into the wood, were four initials and four dates. The first three matched the murders.
The fourth date was tomorrow.
Below it, someone had carved a name.
MERCER.
Junie made a small sound. Mercer saw it too.
“Jonah,” Vale said, “you’ve made your point.”
“No. You have made yours for twenty years.”
“What do you want?”
“The fourth candle.”
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
The speaker went dead.
Mercer moved fast. She shoved Vale aside and examined the candlestick, then the walls, then the black window. “He knows we’re here. He knows exactly what we’re looking at.”
“He wants me to light it,” Vale said.
“Then he can want.”
The telephone began ringing in the adjoining gallery.
Mercer pointed her weapon at Vale. “You stay here.”
He ignored her and reached the phone first. The cord had been severed at the wall. The instrument could not possibly work.
He lifted the receiver anyway.
Jonah’s voice came through at once. “Detective Mercer will leave the room in eleven minutes.”
“Why?”
“Because the door will lock.”
Mercer grabbed the receiver. “Jonah Rusk, this is Detective Ione Mercer. You are obstructing a murder investigation and threatening a police officer. Come out now.”
“I know your name.”
“Then you know I’ll find you.”
“You found the room because Edgar brought you. You found the boy because Edgar remembered him. You still haven’t found the man who opened the door.”
Mercer’s expression changed by one degree. Her eyes moved to Vale.
Vale felt the accusation arrive before she spoke.
“What does he mean?” she asked.
Jonah answered through the receiver. “Ask him who held the door.”
The line went silent.
Vale stared at the black window. A memory rose—not from the experiment, but from after. The eastern passage. His case in his hand. The door to the hidden room standing open behind him, though he had never entered it. A small hand curled around its edge.
Not Jonah’s hand. Older. Gloved.
He had seen it. He had chosen not to.
Mercer stepped between him and the exit. “Who held the door, Edgar?”
The mill groaned around them. Somewhere in the walls, a mechanism engaged.
The concealed door began to swing shut.
Vale seized the candlestick, smashed the red marble beneath his heel, and drove the broken brass stem into the closing gap. Sparks jumped from the hidden lock. The door shuddered and stopped.
Mercer looked at him.
“If Jonah wants the fourth candle,” Vale said, “we give him one.”
“You just said the candle was yours.”
“It is.” He picked up the cassette. “But I’m not lighting it for him.”
He turned toward the second door, the one bolted from their side.