Norbert Gannicox and Bartholomew Middlestreet appeared to be transfixed by the key that Norbert had placed upon the bar of The Squid and Teapot. It was ornate, obviously old and, until that morning, had spent the previous half-century or more hidden in a damp cupboard, in a dusty corner of the Gannicox Distillery. The box in which the key had been found also contained a mysterious letter, signed by Sebastian Lypiatt (a previous landlord of the inn), who had suggested that it would be preferable for ‘the item’, as he called it, to be kept anywhere other than The Squid and Teapot, and asking Solomon (Norbert’s grandfather) to do the decent thing, and hang on to it.

It was Philomena Bucket who broke the spell, mopping up puddles of spilt beer and rearranging the dust on the floor with a sweeping brush.

“What’s that old thing you’ve got there that’s causing so much interest? “she enquired, casually brushing a shower of pastry crumbs over Norbert’s boots.

“It’s a key to a door we don’t seem to have,” replied Bartholomew, shaking his head. “I know every door in this inn, and I also know what every key to every door looks like, and none of them look like this one.”

“Then maybe it doesn’t belong here at all,” declared Philomena, then added, jokingly, “unless, of course, you’ve not yet found the secret doorway that leads to a treasure chest.”

“I can’t imagine that,” said Bartholomew, although the sudden enthusiastic look on his face told Philomena and Norbert that he certainly could imagine it, and the prospect excited him no end.

“Well, if you don’t look you won’t find anything,” said Philomena, philosophically. “I don’t mind having a poke about, up in the attics, if you like.”

The truth of the matter is that Philomena enjoys nothing more than rummaging around in the attics of The Squid and Teapot, so this was not too arduous a chore for her.

“Yes, alright, if you’re sure, but that’s a big space to cover on your own,” said Bartholomew.

Just then his wife, Ariadne, wandered in and was immediately press-ganged into helping.

“If you two take a look in the attics, Norbert and I will see if there are any secret doors in the cellar,” said Bartholomew, adding pessimistically, “but I don’t expect we’ll find anything.”

The Squid and Teapot is one of the oldest buildings on the island of Hopeless. Originally thought to have been a church, and constructed long before the founding families arrived here, it has changed in shape, size and purpose considerably during its lifetime. Over the years it has been the subject of several building projects, leaving it both impressive in appearance and somewhat eccentric in design.  The inside of The Squid, as it is affectionately known, is no less remarkable. While its cellars contain as many barrels of alcohol as the Ebley Brewery and Gannicox distillery are able to provide, plus anything else vaguely alcoholic that the tide brings in, the spacious attics are an Aladdin’s cave, filled with any spoils of the sea which, for now, are not required for use on the island.

While Bartholomew and Norbert peered and prodded behind the barrels in the cellar, Philomena and Ariadne busied themselves moving boxes away from the attic walls in the hope that they would find the elusive doorway. The light filtering through the small, grimy windows, however, was not particularly good, and their tallow candles illuminated little. It was beginning to look like a lost cause.

“Let’s take a break,” said Ariadne after an hour of fruitless searching, and flopped down on to an old sea-chest that they had found to be too heavy to pull from the far wall.

“What’s kept in there?” asked Philomena. “It looks old.”

“No idea,” replied Ariadne. “It has always been here, as far as I know. We’ve tried to open it in the past, but not even crowbars will prise the lid up. Sadly, it’s locked tight, and we haven’t got the key. “

A meaningful silence filled the room, and the two women looked at each other for what felt like an eternity.

“You don’t think…” said Philomena.

She said no more, but rushed down the stairs, grabbed the ornate key that was still sitting on the bar, and returned, red-faced and breathless.

“What kept you?” grinned Ariadne. She moved off the chest and, with trembling hands, Philomena put the key into the lock. She expected the mechanism to be stiff and unyielding but was surprised by the ease with which it turned.  Gingerly, as if she half-expected something to leap out and attack her, she lifted the lid and peered inside.

“What’s in there?” asked Ariadne, excitedly.

“Nothing at all,” replied Philomena.

“Nothing? Oh for goodness sake…” Ariadne began, but Philomena cut her short.

“No… it’s empty but it goes down forever. There’s a ladder inside and I can’t see the how far it is to the bottom.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ariadne, “how can the chest be bottomless?”

“Because it’s not a chest. Not a real one, anyway. It won’t come from the wall because it’s part of it, a small extension built to look like a sea-chest. It is a secret passage! Come on, let’s see what’s down there,” said Philomena.

“I’m not sure that I can…” said Ariadne, hesitantly.

“Well I will!” replied Philomena, “Give me a candle and hang around up here until you know that I’m safely at the bottom. Will you do that?”

Ariadne nodded, feeling feeble, but unable to face the challenge of a vertical ladder that seemed to descend into nothing but unfathomable darkness.

Philomena tied her skirt into a knot around her waist and put her foot on the top rung, quietly praying that rust had not attacked the metalwork. Ariadne looked on anxiously as her friend disappeared into the gloom.

The shaft was cold and narrow, little wider than the span of Philomena’s shoulders. The smoky candle barely pierced the darkness, which seemed to wrap itself around her like a blanket.

“Can’t be far now,” she thought to herself. Her senses, usually so acute, felt numbed and the short while that she had been on the ladder felt like an eternity. Then her feet touched the floor.

Philomena reached out and felt cold stone all around her. She told herself not to panic; if there was no way out, other than the way she had come, then she’d climb back up. She would be fine.  The problem was that she did not feel fine, encased in what felt like a stone sepulchre. She allowed the meagre light of the candle to play over the unremitting wall of granite, but found no sign of a means of egress, other than via the ladder.

She was about to turn back, ready to face the long and perilous climb to the top, when she noticed the flame waver, a tiny flicker that would have been easy to miss. Raising a pale finger, Philomena traced it against the stonework. There was a definite line to follow, just enough of a crack to allow the tiniest whiff of air to find its way through the otherwise solid wall.

“This must be a door,” she told herself, pushing at the wall, but nothing moved. The candle was almost spent and its flame was growing weaker by the second. Then it went out altogether.

“Blast! I give up,” she moaned, almost in tears, and reached for the ladder. Philomena, however, had lost her bearings in the darkness and instead of touching cold iron, she found her hand leaning against a stone projecting very slightly from the rest of the wall. There was a soft rumble, and a mechanism that had lain idle for at least fifty years was coaxed into life. A second or two later a narrow section of wall slid back, revealing Bartholomew and Norbert. They were happily perched on a couple of beer barrels, and enjoying a quiet pint of Old Colonel.

They stared in surprise at Philomena, who was suddenly conscious of her skirt knotted up around her waist and her pale, bare thighs on show, for all to see.

“Hello there, fellas,” she said, unabashed. “I could really use a drop of that stuff.”

To be continued…