Opening cupboards, wardrobes, trunks. Looking under beds. Footsteps vibrate on the ceiling of the top floor as the attic is searched, bats escaping the strafing intrusion of flashlights. Dozens more police comb the vast foundations. It’s a gold rush down there. Torches, hurricane lamps. Some are wearing miners’ caps. There is the constant whir of generators. Spotlights have been set up in the catacomb passageways of the cellars, dust revolving in the blinding beams. They haven’t found a way into the well yet, but there are already men tracing the massive old water pipes that striate the grounds, dating back to the time when the estate’s subterranean aquifer provided its own supply of water. The Bannisters were notoriously independent—social code from the old days for selfish and avaricious. The elaborate pumping system not only sucked and channelled High Sierra’s groundwater, but also that of its neighbours. Elaine could have crawled her way into this ancient water network from another entrance, maybe on another level or even from another property.
