Newton’s Fire

III

The well had originally been just behind the Ashmolean’s rear wall, but the recent extension had brought it inside. Olivia led them to it. Its head was knee high and perhaps three feet across, and it had been fitted with a black-painted winch and handle to make it into a feature, even though its mouth was covered by a sheet of safety glass bolted to the brickwork.

‘Back in a mo,’ said Olivia. She vanished upstairs and returned heaving a battered blue toolbox. Luke found himself an adjustable wrench and went to work. The bolts didn’t come easily, not even after oiling. But finally he had them. They lifted off the safety glass, rested it against the wall. A noxious smell oozed up from the darkness. Luke took a torch from the toolbox, aimed it down. Water glittered blackly from the foot, minutely disturbed by fragments of brickwork they’d dislodged while removing the glass. He pointed the torch at each section of shaft wall in turn, but it all looked perfectly normal.

‘What now?’ asked Rachel.

‘One of us goes down, of course,’ said Pelham. He gave Luke a pointed look. ‘I can’t think who.’

‘Hey,’ grinned Luke. ‘I’d pay for the privilege.’ A brass reflecting telescope was on display at the foot of the main staircase, roped off to discourage children from using it as a fairground ride. The rope was a ceremonial crimson, but it looked strong enough. Luke untied it and carried it to the well. He knotted one end around the winch, tugged it to make sure it would hold.

Rachel winced as she watched. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, tossing the rest of the rope down into the shaft. It uncoiled as it went, its end splashing into the dark water. The torch had a wrist strap, but he needed his hands uncluttered. There was a ball of string in the toolbox, so he cut off a length, fed it through the strap, and knotted it around his neck like an outsized medallion. He sat on the rim with his legs over the edge, grabbed the rope with both hands, gave it another tug. The winch’s moorings creaked a little, as if to remind him they were mainly decorative. He looked down into the shaft, black and forbidding, turned to Pelham. ‘If this thing starts to give, you’ll grab the rope, right?’

‘I’ll certainly give it my fullest consideration,’ said Pelham.

‘That’s all I ask, mate.’

Luke tightened his grip then committed himself, swinging across the shaft like the clapper of a bell, hitting the far wall harder than he’d expected, the cold rough brickwork scraping his shoulder and his side. The rope creaked and yawed, but it and the winch both held. He made circles with his right leg, twirling the rope around it before clamping it between his feet, allowing him to take weight off his hands. He began to lower himself. The torch banged off his chest and elbows, casting uneven light on the walls. The stonework at the top had recently been cleaned and repointed; but soon it became blackened with decades or maybe even centuries of neglect. He glanced upwards and was taken aback by how far he’d already come, the mouth closing above him like the gullet of some prehistoric beast.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Rachel, her voice strangely thickened and deepened by echoes.

‘Can you see anything?’ asked Pelham.

‘Not yet.’ The rope was swinging more gently now, only occasionally nudging him against the sides, dislodging occasional pieces of grit that fell in soft whispers to the water beneath. He took his full weight on his feet again, the better to inspect the walls. Behind the moss and damp, the stones were granite grey, large as farmhouse loaves, shaped to fit into a ring. But he reached water without discovering a hint of falseness or abnormality.

‘Come back up,’ called Rachel. ‘We need to rethink.’

‘On my way.’ He began to haul himself upwards. Foolish to rush. The rope creaked and twisted; his torch bumped against his chest, casting eerie shadows, painting faces in the moss and lichen. And was his mind playing tricks, or did the wall here bulge very slightly? If so, it was subtle enough that he’d missed it on his descent. He placed his palm on it. The stone was clammy, cold and unwelcoming. But there was no question: it bulged. There should be earth and hardcore on the other side, packing these stones tight together. For it to bulge like this, there surely had to be some kind of flaw or cavity behind.

‘What is it?’ called down Olivia.

‘I don’t know,’ said Luke. ‘Probably nothing.’ He set his back against the opposing wall, placed his soles on the bulge, tried to push. Nothing. He tried until his calves and thighs ached. Still nothing. His hands were tired. He shouldn’t waste energy like this, not with the ascent still to complete. But then he remembered the shriek of the metal detector, the stunned look on Rachel’s face. This wasn’t some crazy figment. There really was something down here.

He set his feet against the bulge for a third time and gave it everything he’d got. And was rewarded by the tiniest scrape of noise as the stone gave just a fraction. He allowed himself a few moments rest before he heaved again. It ceded even more this time, perhaps a full inch. Another effort and it gave up the struggle altogether, tumbled backwards. Both his feet vanished into the created space so that he swung wildly across the shaft, fighting to hold on to the rope. He recovered himself, pulled out his feet, reached his torch inside, illuminating an open space hacked out of bedrock, like some smuggler’s burrow.

‘Well?’ asked Rachel. ‘What is it?’

‘Hard to tell,’ said Luke. ‘Maybe a passage.’ The opening was too small for him, but he’d already loosened the neighbouring stones and he soon had them out. No question now. A passage of some kind. He set the torch on the floor and wriggled in after it, buffering his fall with his elbows and knees. He stood, looked around, anchored himself inside, leaned back out. ‘It’s a passage,’ he called up. ‘I’ll check it out and come straight back.’

‘Be careful,’ said Rachel.

Luke laughed softly as he looked into the ancient darkness. ‘Count on it,’ he said.