My thoughts are interrupted by Cunningham, who’s setting fire to a corner of the letter with a lighter from his pocket.
‘What is it you want from me?’ he says in a hard, flat voice, dropping the burning paper into the grate.
‘Four things, initially,’ I say, counting them off on my thick fingers. ‘First, I need you to find an old well off the road into the village. There’ll be a note tucked into a crack in the stone. Read it, put it back and return to me with the message. Do it soon, the note will be gone within the hour. Secondly, you need to find that plague doctor costume I asked about earlier. Thirdly, I want you scattering the name Anna around Blackheath like confetti. Let it be known Lord Ravencourt is looking for her. Finally, I need you to introduce yourself to Sebastian Bell.’
‘Sebastian Bell, the doctor?’
‘That’s the chap.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I remember being Sebastian Bell, but I don’t remember meeting you,’ I say. ‘If we change that, it means I prove to myself that something else can be changed today.’
‘Evelyn Hardcastle’s death?’
‘Precisely.’
Letting out a long breath, Cunningham turns to face me. He seems diminished, as though our conversation were a desert he’s spent a week crossing.
‘If I do these things, can I expect the contents of this letter to stay between us?’ he says, his expression conveying more hope than expectation.
‘It will, you have my word.’
I extend a sweaty hand.
‘Then it seems I have no choice,’ he says, shaking it firmly, only the slightest flicker of disgust showing on his face.
He departs in a hurry, probably wary of being burdened with more tasks should he linger. In his absence, the damp air seems to settle upon me, sinking through my clothes and into my bones. Judging the library too cheerless to stay in any longer, I struggle out of my seat, using my cane to hoist myself onto my feet.
I pass through the study on my way to Ravencourt’s parlour, where I’ll settle myself ahead of my meeting with Helena Hardcastle. If she’s plotting to murder Evelyn this evening, then, by Lord, I mean to have it out of her.
The house is still, the men out hunting and the women drinking in the Sun Room. Even the servants have disappeared, scattering back below stairs to prepare for the ball. In their wake a great hush has fallen, my only company the rain tapping at the windows, demanding to be let inside. Bell missed the noise, but as somebody finely tuned to the malice of others, Ravencourt finds this silence refreshing. It’s like airing a musty room.
Heavy steps disturb my reverie, each one deliberate and slow, as if determined to draw my attention. I’ve reached as far as the dining hall, where a long oak table is overlooked by the mounted heads of long-slaughtered beasts, their fur faded and thick with dust. The room is empty, and yet the steps seem to be all around, mimicking my hobbling gait.
I stiffen, coming to a halt, sweat beading my brow.
The steps stop in turn.
Dabbing my forehead, I look around nervously, wishing Bell’s paperknife were to hand. Buried in Ravencourt’s sluggish flesh, I feel like a man dragging an anchor. I can neither run nor fight, and even if I could, I’d be swinging at air. I’m quite alone.
After a brief hesitation, I begin walking again, those ghostly steps trailing me. I stop suddenly, and they stop with me, a sinister giggle drifting out of the walls. My heart’s pounding, hair standing up on my arms as fright sends me lurching towards the safety of the entrance hall visible through the drawing-room door. By now the steps aren’t bothering mimicking me, they’re dancing, that giggle seeming to come from every direction.
I’m panting by the time I reach the doorway, blinded by sweat and moving so fast I’m in danger of tripping over my own cane. As I pass into the entrance hall, the laughter stops abruptly, a whisper chasing me out.
‘We’ll meet soon, little rabbit.’
16
Ten minutes later, the whisper’s long faded, but the terror it provoked echoes still. It wasn’t the words themselves, so much as the glee they carried. That warning was a down payment on the blood and pain to come, and only a fool wouldn’t see the footman behind it.
Holding my hand up, I check to see how badly it’s trembling, and, deciding that I’m at least moderately recovered, I continue onwards to my room. I’ve only taken a step or two when sobbing draws my attention to a dark doorway at the back of the entrance hall. For a full minute I hover on the periphery, peering into the dimness, fearing a trap. Surely the footman wouldn’t try something so soon, or be able to summon up these pitiable gulps of sadness I’m hearing now?
Sympathy compels me to take a tentative step forward, and I find myself in a narrow gallery adorned with Hardcastle family portraits. Generations wither on the walls, the current incumbents of Blackheath hanging nearest the door. Lady Helena Hardcastle is sitting regally beside her standing husband, both of them dark-haired and dark-eyed, beautifully supercilious. Next to them are the portraits of the children, Evelyn at a window, fingering the edge of the curtain as she watches for somebody’s arrival, while Michael has one leg flung over the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, a book discarded on the floor. He looks bored, shimmering with a restless energy. In the corner of each portrait is a splashed signature; that of Gregory Gold if I’m not very much mistaken. The memory of the butler’s beating at the artist’s hands is still fresh and I find myself gripping my cane, tasting the blood in my mouth once again. Evelyn told me Gold had been brought to Blackheath to touch up the portraits and I can see why. The man may be insane, but he’s talented.
Another sob issues from the corner of the room.
There are no windows in the gallery, only burning oil lamps, and it’s so dim I have to squint to locate the maid slumped in the shadows, weeping into a soggy handkerchief. Tact would advise that I approach quietly, but Ravencourt’s ill designed for stealth. My cane raps the floor, the sound of my breathing running on ahead, announcing my presence. Catching sight of me, the maid leaps to her feet, her cap coming loose, curly red hair springing free.
I recognise her immediately. This is Lucy Harper, the maid Ted Stanwin abused at lunch, and the woman who helped me down to the kitchen when I awoke as the butler. The memory of that kindness echoes within me, a warm rush of pity shaping the words in my mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I say.
‘No, sir, it’s not... I shouldn’t...’ She casts around for some escape, miring herself further in etiquette.
‘I heard you crying,’ I say, attempting to push a sympathetic smile onto my face. It’s a difficult thing to achieve with somebody else’s mouth, especially when there’s so much flesh to move around.
‘Oh, sir, you shouldn’t... it was my fault. I made a mistake at lunch,’ she says, dabbing the last of her tears away.
‘Ted Stanwin treated you atrociously,’ I say, surprised by the alarm rising on her face.
‘No, sir, you mustn’t say that,’ she says, her voice hurdling an entire octave. ‘Ted, Mr Stanwin, I mean, he’s been good to us servants. Always treated us right, he has. He’s just... now he’s a gentleman, he can’t be seen...’
She’s on the verge of tears again.
‘I understand,’ I say hastily. ‘He doesn’t want the other guests treating him like a servant.’
A smile swallows her face.
‘That’s it, sir, that’s just it. They’d never have caught Charlie Carver if it weren’t for Ted, but the other gentlemen still look at him like he’s one of us. Not Lord Hardcastle though, he calls him Mr Stanwin and everything.’
‘Well, as long as you’re quite all right,’ I say, taken aback by the pride in her voice.
‘I am, sir, really I am,’ she says earnestly, emboldened enough to scoop her cap from the floor. ‘I should be getting back, they’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
She takes a step towards the door, but is too slow to prev
ent me throwing a question in her path.
‘Lucy, do you know anybody called Anna?’ I ask. ‘I was thinking she could be a servant.’
‘Anna?’ She pauses, tossing the full weight of her thought at the problem. ‘No, sir, can’t say as I do.’
‘Any of the maids acting strangely?’
‘Now, sir, would you believe, you’re the third person to ask that question today,’ she says, twisting a lock of her curly hair around her finger.
‘Third?’
‘Yes, sir, Mrs Derby was down in the kitchen only an hour ago wondering the same thing. Gave us a right fright she did. High-born lady like that wandering around downstairs, ain’t ever heard of such a thing.’
My hand grips my cane. Whoever this Mrs Derby is, she’s acting oddly and asking the same questions I am. Perhaps I’ve found another of my rivals.
Or another host.
The suggestion makes me blush, Ravencourt’s familiarity with women extending only so far as acknowledging their existence in the world. The thought of becoming one is as unintelligible to him as a day spent breathing water.
‘What can you tell me about Mrs Derby?’ I ask.
‘Nothing much, sir,’ says Lucy. ‘Older lady, sharp tongue. I liked her. Not sure if it means anything, but there was a footman as well. Came in a few minutes after Mrs Derby asking the same question: any of the servants acting funny?’
My hand squeezes the knob of my cane even tighter, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from cursing.
‘A footman?’ I say. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Blond hair, tall, but...’ she drifts off, looking troubled, ‘I don’t know, pleased with himself. Probably works for a gentleman, sir, they get like that, pick up airs and graces they do. Had a broken nose, all black and purple, like it only recently happened. I reckon somebody took exception to him.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Wasn’t me, sir, was Mrs Drudge, the cook. Said the same thing she said to Mrs Derby, that the servants were fine, it was the guests gone –’ she blushes – ‘oh, begging your pardon, sir, I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry, Lucy, I find most of the people in this house as peculiar as you do. What have they been doing?’
She grins, her eyes darting towards the doors guiltily. When she speaks again, her voice is almost low enough to be drowned out by the creaking of the floorboards.
‘Well, this morning Miss Hardcastle was out in the forest with her lady’s maid, French she is, you should hear her, quelle this and quelle that. Somebody attacked them out by Charlie Carver’s old cottage. One of the guests apparently, but they wouldn’t say which one.’
‘Attacked, you’re certain?’ I say, recalling my morning as Bell, and the woman I saw fleeing through the forest. I assumed it was Anna, but what if I was wrong? It wouldn’t be the first assumption to trip me up in Blackheath.
‘That’s what they said, sir,’ she says, falling shy in the face of my eagerness.
‘I think I need to have a chat with this French maid, what’s her name?’
‘Madeline Aubert, sir, only I’d prefer it if you didn’t let on who told you. They’re keeping quiet about it.’
Madeline Aubert. That’s the maid who gave Bell the note at dinner last night. In the confusion of recent events, I’d quite forgotten about his slashed arm.
‘My lips are sealed, Lucy, thank you,’ I say, miming the action. ‘Even so, I must speak with her. Could you let her know I’m looking for her? You don’t have to tell her why, but there’s a reward in it for both of you if she comes to my parlour.’
She looks doubtful, but agrees readily enough, bolting before I have time to slip any more promises around her neck.
If Ravencourt were able, I’d have a bounce in my step as I depart the gallery. Whatever apathy Evelyn may feel towards Ravencourt, she’s still my friend and my will is still bent on saving her. If somebody threatened her in the forest this morning, it’s not a stretch to assume the same person will play some part in her murder this evening. I must do everything in my power to intercept them, and hopefully this Madeline Aubert will be able to help. Who knows, by this point tomorrow I might have the murderer’s name in hand. If the Plague Doctor honours his offer, I could escape this house with hosts to spare.
This jubilation persists only as far as the corridor, my whistling faltering with each step further away from the brightness of the entrance hall. The footman’s presence has transformed Blackheath, its leaping shadows and blind corners populating my imagination with a hundred horrible deaths at his hands. Every little noise is enough to set my already overburdened heart racing. By the time I reach my parlour, I’m soaked with sweat, a knot in my chest.
Closing the door behind me, I let out a long shuddering breath. At this rate, the footman won’t need to kill me, my health will give out first.
The parlour’s a beautiful room, a chaise longue and an armchair beneath a chandelier reflecting the flames of a roaring fire. A sideboard is laid with spirits and mixers, sliced fruit, bitters and a bucket of half-melted ice. Beside that sits a teetering pile of roast beef sandwiches, mustard running down the severed edges. My stomach would drag me towards the food, but my body’s collapsing beneath me.
I need to rest.
The armchair takes my weight with ill temper, the legs bowing under the strain. Rain’s thumping the windows, the sky bruised black and purple. Are these the same drops that fell yesterday, the same clouds? Do rabbits dig the same warrens, disturbing the same insects? Do the same birds fly the same patterns, crashing into the same windows? If this is a trap, what kind of prey is worthy of it?
‘I could do with a drink,’ I mutter, rubbing my throbbing temples.
‘Here you go,’ says a woman from directly behind me, the drink arriving over my shoulder in a small hand, the fingers bony and calloused.
I attempt to turn, but there’s too much of Ravencourt and too little of the seat.
The woman shakes the glass impatiently, rattling the ice inside.
‘You should drink this before the ice melts,’ she says.
‘You’ll forgive me if I’m suspicious of taking a drink from a woman I don’t know,’ I say.
She lowers her lips to my ear, her breath warm on my neck.
‘But you do know me,’ she whispers. ‘I was in the carriage with the butler. My name’s Anna.’
‘Anna!’ I say, trying to raise myself from the seat.
Her hand is an anvil on my shoulder, pushing me back down onto the cushions.
‘Don’t bother, by the time you get up I’ll be gone,’ she says. ‘We’ll meet soon, but I need you to stop looking for me.’
‘Stop looking, why?’
‘Because you’re not the only one searching,’ she says, withdrawing a little. ‘The footman’s hunting me as well, and he knows we’re working together. If you keep looking, you’re going to lead him straight to me. We’re both safe while I’m hidden, so call off the dogs.’
I feel her presence recede, steps moving towards the far door.
‘Wait,’ I cry. ‘Do you know who I am, or why we’re here? Please, there must be something you can tell me.’
She pauses, considering it.
‘The only memory I woke up with was a name,’ she says. ‘I think it’s yours.’
My hands clutch the armrests.
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘Aiden Bishop,’ she says. ‘Now, I’ve done as you asked, so do as I ask. Stop looking for me.’
17
‘Aiden Bishop,’ I say, wrapping my tongue around the vowels. ‘Aiden... Bishop. Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.’
I’ve been trying different combinations, intonations and deliveries of my name for the last half hour, hoping to lure some memories from my recalcitrant mind. Thus far, all I’ve managed to do is give myself a dry mouth. It’s a frustrating way to pass the time, but I’ve few alternatives. One-thirty has come and gone, with no word from Helena Hardcastle to explain her a
bsence. I summoned a maid to fetch her, but was informed that nobody’s seen the lady of the house since this morning. The damn woman has disappeared.
To make matters worse, neither Cunningham nor Madeline Aubert has visited me, and while I’d hardly expected Evelyn’s maid to answer my summons, Cunningham’s been gone for hours. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him but I’m growing impatient. We’ve so much to do, and little time left to do it.
‘ ’Allo, Cecil,’ says a rasping voice. ‘Is Helena still here? I heard you were meeting her.’
Standing at the door is an elderly lady buried beneath a huge red coat, hat and mud-spattered wellington boots that almost reach her knees. Her cheeks are raw with cold, a scowl frozen on her face.
‘I haven’t seen her, I’m afraid,’ I say. ‘I’m still waiting for her.’
‘You too, eh? Bloody woman was supposed to meet me in the garden this morning, left me shivering on a bench for an hour instead,’ she says, stomping over to the fire. She’s wearing so many layers a spark will send her up like a Viking funeral.
‘Wonder where she’s got to?’ she says, tugging off her gloves and tossing them on the seat next to mine. ‘It’s not like there’s a lot to do in Blackheath. Fancy a drink?’
‘Still working on this one,’ I say, waving my glass in her direction.
‘You’ve got the right idea. I got it into my head to go for a stroll, but when I came back I couldn’t get anybody to open the front door. I’ve been banging on windows for the last half hour, but there’s not a servant to be seen. The whole thing’s positively American.’
Decanters scrape free of their fittings, glasses thumping down on the wood. Ice tinkles against glass, crackling as alcohol is poured on top. There’s a fizz and a satisfying plop, followed by a gulp and a long sigh of pleasure from the old lady.
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 11