I was easily able to explain the tunnel—I had seen something of the sort in other old houses. It was simply a way of escape for those inside if enemies became too pressing. Peakshire had played a strenuous part in the Civil War, most of the big men being on the side of the King and White Towers, the older part of which dated back beyond Elizabeth, had probably been a Royalist stronghold and meeting place. If enemies, in the shape of Cromwell’s men, came along, the Cavaliers would only have to creep through the tunnel in order to escape the Roundheads. Or it may have been constructed in even earlier days for the benefit of Roman Catholic refugees.
That, however, was mere speculation, though not without interest. For many years evidently it had been unused and forgotten until it was rediscovered by the two children who had kept it a delightful secret to themselves and had, no doubt, brought it into many exciting games. The question for us, however, was—had Clevedon used it recently, and if so, for what purpose? It was certainly interesting and possibly significant that somebody evidently had been that way not so very long before. But Clevedon at all events did not use hairpins.
“There seems to be no evidence that your brother ever came this way,” I said, as we stood looking round us. “True, the vegetation at the entrance to that passage bore some appearance of having been trampled down, though that may have been the weather or—”
“I did that,” Thoyne broke in quickly. “Kitty told me about this before I saw you and I went to look for myself.”
I glanced at him casually. It was quite likely he spoke the truth.
“Did you get as far as this?” I asked.
“Oh, no, I didn’t get beyond the entrance.”
“And you think you trampled that brushwood?”
“I—it is possible I may have done.”
“You did not notice its condition before—?”