‘And you think stripping me of my disguise will reveal it?’ he scoffs. ‘A face is a mask of another sort, you know that better than most; though you’re right, I am hiding something. If it makes you feel better, I’m not hiding it from you. Should you somehow succeed and tear this mask free, I’d simply be replaced, and your task would remain. I’ll let you decide if that’s worth the trouble. As for your presence in Blackheath, perhaps it would assuage your doubts to know the name of the man who brought you here.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Aiden Bishop,’ he says. ‘Unlike your rivals, you came to Blackheath voluntarily. Everything that’s happening today, you brought upon yourself.’
His voice suggests regret, but the expressionless white mask makes the statement sinister, a parody of sadness.
‘That can’t be true,’ I say stubbornly. ‘Why would I come here of my own free will? Why would anybody do this to himself?’
‘Your life before Blackheath is none of my concern, Mr Bishop. Solve the murder of Evelyn Hardcastle and you’ll have all the answers you require,’ he says. ‘In the meantime, Bell needs your help.’ He points behind me. ‘He’s that way.’
Without another word he withdraws into the forest, the dimness swallowing him completely. My mind is clogged up by a hundred small questions, but none of them is going to do me any good in this forest, so I push them to one side and go in search of Bell, finding him bent double and trembling with exertion. He freezes as I approach, catching the sound of twigs cracking beneath my feet.
His timidity revolts me.
Mistaken as she was, at least Madeline had the good sense to flee.
I circle around behind my former self, keeping my face from view. I could try to explain what’s happening here, but frightened rabbits make poor allies, especially those already convinced you’re a murderer.
All I need from Bell is his survival.
Two more steps and I’m behind him, leaning close enough to whisper into his ear. Sweat pours off his body, the smell like a filthy rag pushed to my face. It’s all I can do to speak without gagging.
‘East,’ I say, dropping the compass into his pocket.
Backing away, I head into the trees, towards Carver’s burnt-out cottage. Bell’s going to be lost for another hour or so, giving me plenty of time to follow the flags back to the house without stumbling into him.
Despite my best efforts, everything’s happening exactly as I remember it.
24
The looming shape of Blackheath appears through the gaps in the trees. I’ve come out around the back of the house, which is in an even worse state of repair than the front. Several windows are cracked, the brickwork crumbling. A stone balustrade has tumbled from the roof to lodge itself in the grass, thick moss covering it. Clearly, the Hardcastles only repaired the sections of the house their guests would see – little wonder considering the paucity of their finances.
Just as I lingered on the edge of the forest that first morning, I now find myself crossing the garden with similar foreboding. If I came here voluntarily, I must have had a reason, but no matter how hard I strain for the memory, it’s beyond reach.
I’d like to believe I’m a good man who came to help, but if that’s the case I’m making a damn mess of things. Tonight, as every night, Evelyn’s going to kill herself and if this morning’s actions are any guide, my attempts to paddle away from the disaster may only hurry us towards it. For all I know, my fumbling attempts to save Evelyn are actually the reason she ends up at that reflecting pool with a silver pistol in her hand.
I’m so lost in these thoughts I don’t notice Millicent until I’m almost on top of her. The old lady is shivering on an iron bench that looks out across the garden, her arms folded against the wind. Three shapeless coats encase her completely, her eyes peering out over a scarf pulled up above her mouth. She’s blue with cold, a hat pulled down over her ears. Hearing my steps, she turns to meet me, surprise showing on her wrinkled face.
‘By Jove, you look dreadful,’ she says, pulling the scarf down from her mouth.
‘Good morning to you too, Millicent,’ I say, taken aback by the sudden surge of warmth her presence stokes within me.
‘Millicent?’ she says, pursing her lips. ‘That’s rather modern of you, dear. I prefer ‘‘Mother’’ if it’s all the same to you. I wouldn’t want people thinking I picked you up off the street. Though sometimes I wonder if I mightn’t have been better off.’
My mouth hangs open. I hadn’t previously made the connection between Jonathan Derby and Millicent Derby, probably because it’s easier to imagine him being delivered onto this earth by a biblical plague.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets and sitting down beside her.
She cocks an eyebrow at me, those clever grey eyes alight with amusement.
‘An apology and an appearance before midday, are you feeling quite all right?’ she asks.
‘It must be the country air,’ I say. ‘What about you, why are you out on this dreadful morning?’
She grunts, hugging herself even tighter. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Helena for a stroll, but I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the woman. No doubt she’s got her times wrong as usual. I know she’s meeting Cecil Ravenscourt this afternoon, she’s probably gone there instead.’
‘Ravenscourt’s still asleep.’ I say.
Millicent peers at me inquisitively.
‘Cunningham told me, Ravencourt’s valet,’ I lie.
‘You know him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t get too friendly,’ she tuts. ‘I understand how much you enjoy dubious society, but from what Cecil’s told me, this one’s most unsuitable, even by your low standards.’
That piques my interest. I’m fond of the valet, but he only agreed to help me after I threatened to blackmail him with a secret he’s keeping. Until I know what he’s hiding, I can’t depend on him, and Millicent might be the key to unearthing it.
‘How so?’ I ask casually.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says, waving an airy hand at me. ‘You know Cecil, secrets tucked between every fold of skin. If you believe the rumours, he only hired Cunningham because Helena asked him to. Now, he’s uncovered something unsavoury about the boy and is thinking of letting him go.’
‘Unsavoury?’ I say.
‘Well, that’s what Cecil said, not that I could get the rest out of him. Blasted fellow has a bear trap for a mouth, but you know how he hates scandal. Given Cunningham’s parentage, it must be desperately salacious if he’s worried. Wish I knew what it was.’
‘Cunningham’s parentage?’ I ask. ‘I think I’ve missed a step.’
‘The boy was raised at Blackheath,’ she says. ‘Cook’s son, or that’s the story at least.’
‘It’s not true?’
The old lady cackles, looking at me slyly.
‘Word has it the Honourable Lord Peter Hardcastle used to enjoy himself in London from time to time. Well, on one occasion his enjoyment followed him back to Blackheath with a baby in her arms, which she claimed was his. Peter was ready to send the child to the church, but Helena stepped in and demanded they keep it.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Knowing Helena, she probably meant it as an insult,’ sniffs Millicent, turning her face away from the bitter wind. ‘She was never very fond of her husband and inviting his shame into the house would have tickled her. Poor Peter has probably cried himself to sleep every night for the last thirty-three years. Either way, they gave the baby to Mrs Drudge, the cook, to raise, and Helena made sure everybody knew whose child he was.’
‘Does Cunningham know any of this?’
‘Can’t see how he wouldn’t, it’s one of those secrets people shout at each other,’ says the old lady, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her running nose. ‘Anyway, you can ask him yourself seeing as you’re so chummy. Shall we walk? I see little point in us freezing
on this bench waiting for a woman who isn’t coming.’
She stands before I have a chance to respond, stamping her boots and blowing warm air into her gloved hands. It really is a dreadful day, the grey sky spitting rain, lathering itself into the fury of a storm.
‘Why are you even out here?’ I ask, our feet crunching along the gravel path that circles the house. ‘Couldn’t you have met Lady Hardcastle inside?’
‘Too many people I’d rather not bump into,’ she says.
Why was she in the kitchen this morning?
‘Speaking of bumping into people, I hear you were in the kitchen this morning,’ I say.
‘Who told you that?’ she bridles.
‘Well—’
‘I haven’t been anywhere near the kitchen,’ she continues, not waiting for a response. ‘Filthy places. The smell doesn’t come out for weeks.’
She seems genuinely irritated by the suggestion, which means she probably hasn’t done it yet. A moment later she nudges me good-naturedly, her voice suddenly gleeful. ‘Did you hear about Donald Davies? Apparently he took an automobile last night and ran off back to London. The stablemaster saw him, said he turned up in the pouring rain, dressed in every colour under the sun.’
That brings me pause. Surely, I should have returned to Donald Davies by now, as I have done with the butler. He was my third host, and Anna told me I’m obliged to live one full day in each of them, whether I want to or not. It can’t have been much past mid-morning when I left him asleep on the road, so why haven’t I seen him again?
You left him defenceless and alone.
I felt a ripple of guilt. For all I know, the footman has already found him.
‘Were you listening to me?’ says Millicent, annoyed. ‘I said Donald Davies took off in an automobile. They’re cracked that family, every one of them, and that’s an official medical opinion.’
‘You’ve been talking to Dickie,’ I say absently, still thinking about Davies.
‘Been talked at more like,’ she scoffs. ‘Thirty minutes I spent trying to keep my eyes off that moustache. I’m surprised sound can penetrate it.’
That makes me laugh.
‘Do you actually like anybody at Blackheath, Mother?’
‘Not that I recall, but it’s envy I suspect. Society’s a dance, darling, and I’m too old to take part. Speaking of dancing, here comes the organ grinder himself.’
I follow her gaze to see Daniel approaching us from the opposite direction. Despite the cold, he’s dressed in a cricket sweater and linen trousers, the same outfit he’ll be wearing when he encounters Bell in the entrance hall for the first time. I check my watch, that meeting can’t be far off.
‘Mr Coleridge,’ calls out Millicent with forced bonhomie.
‘Mrs Derby,’ he says, drawing alongside us. ‘Broken any hearts this morning?’
‘They don’t even quiver these days, Mr Coleridge, more’s the pity.’ There’s something cautious in her tone, as if she’s crossing a bridge she feels certain will break. ‘What disreputable business brings you out on such a terrible morning?’
‘I’ve a favour to ask your son, and I assure you, it’s entirely above board.’
‘Well, that’s disappointing.’
‘For you and me both.’ He looks at me for the first time. ‘A minute, Derby?’
We step aside, Millicent doing her best to appear uninterested, while shooting us speculative glances from above her scarf.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I’m going after the footman,’ he says, that handsome face of his caught somewhere between fear and excitement.
‘How?’ I say, immediately taken with the idea.
‘We know he’s going to be in the dining hall tormenting Ravencourt around one,’ he says. ‘I propose catching hold of the dog there.’
Recalling those ghostly steps and that evil laughter is enough to raise goose bumps on my neck, and the thought of finally laying hands on the devil sets fire to my veins. The ferocity of the feeling isn’t far off what Derby felt in the forest, when we were chasing the maid, and it immediately puts me on my guard. I can’t give this host an inch.
‘What’s your scheme?’ I say, tempering my enthusiasm. ‘I was in that room alone, I couldn’t even guess at where he was hiding.’
‘Nor could I, until I got talking to an old friend of the Hardcastles at dinner last night,’ he says, drawing me a little further away from Millicent, who’s managed to sidle near the edge of our conversation. ‘Turns out there’s a warren of priest tunnels beneath the floorboards. That’s where the footman was hiding, and that’s where we’ll put an end to him.’
‘How?’
‘My new friend tells me there are entrances in the library, drawing room and gallery. I suggest we each watch an entrance and grab him when he comes out.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ I say, struggling to contain Derby’s rising excitement. ‘I’ll take the library, you take the drawing room. Who’s in the gallery?’
‘Ask Anna,’ he says, ‘but none of us is strong enough to tackle the footman alone. Why don’t you two guard the library, and I’ll round up some of our other hosts to help me with the drawing room and gallery?’
‘Magnificent,’ I say, beaming.
If I didn’t have a hand on Derby’s lead, he’d already be running towards the tunnels with a lantern and a kitchen knife.
‘Good,’ he says, lavishing a smile of such affection upon me it’s impossible to imagine how we could ever fail. ‘Take your position a few minutes before one. With any luck, this will all be over by dinner.’
He turns to depart, but I catch his arm.
‘Did you tell Anna you’d find a way for both of us to escape if she helped us?’ I ask.
He gazes at me steadily, and I quickly withdraw my hand.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘It’s a lie, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Only one of us can escape Blackheath.’
‘Let’s call it a potential lie, shall we? I’ve not given up hope of fulfilling our end of the bargain.’
‘You’re my last host, how much hope do you have?’
‘Not a great deal,’ he says, his expression softening. ‘I know you’re fond of her. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten how that felt, but we need her on our side. We won’t escape this house if we have to spend the day looking over our shoulder for both the footman and Anna.’
‘I have to tell her the truth,’ I say, aghast at his callous disregard of my friend.
He stiffens.
‘Do that and you make an enemy of her,’ he hisses, looking around to make sure we’re not being overheard. ‘At which point, any hope of genuinely helping her goes up in smoke.’
Puffing out his cheeks, he ruffles his hair and smiles at me, agitation leaking out of him like air from a punctured balloon.
‘Do what you think is right,’ he says. ‘But at least wait until we’ve caught the footman.’ He checks his watch. ‘Three more hours, that’s all I’m asking.’
Our eyes meet, mine doubtful and his appealing. I can’t help but submit.
‘Very well,’ I say.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he says.
Squeezing my shoulder, he waves cheerily at Millicent, before striding back towards Blackheath, a man possessed by purpose.
I turn to find Millicent contemplating me through pursed lips.
‘You have some rotten friends,’ she says.
‘I’m a rotten sort of chap,’ I respond, holding her gaze, until finally she shakes her head and carries on walking, slowing enough for me to fall in step beside her. We come upon a long greenhouse. Most of the windowpanes are cracked, the plants inside so overgrown they’re bulging against the glass. Millicent peers inside, but the foliage is much too dense. She gestures for me to follow, and we head to the far end, finding the doors locked with a new chain and padlock.
‘Pity,’ she says, rattling it futilely. ‘I used to love coming here when I was younger.’
‘
You’ve visited Blackheath before?’
‘I summered here when I was girl, we all did: Cecil Ravencourt, the Curtis twins, Peter Hardcastle and Helena – that’s how they met. When I married, I brought your brother and sister down. They practically grew up with Evelyn, Michael and Thomas.’
She links my arm, continuing our walk.
‘Oh, I used to love those summers,’ she says. ‘Helena was always frightfully jealous of your sister, because Evelyn was so plain. Michael wasn’t much better mind, with that squashed face of his. Thomas was the only one with a dash of beauty and he ended up in that lake, which strikes me as fate kicking the poor woman twice, but there it is. Wasn’t a one of them could measure up to you, my handsome lad,’ she says, cupping my cheek.
‘Evelyn turned out all right,’ I protest. ‘She’s quite striking actually.’
‘Really?’ says Millicent disbelievingly. ‘Must have blossomed in Paris, not that I’d know. The girl’s been avoiding me all morning. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. Explains why Cecil’s circling, though. Vainest man I’ve ever met, which is saying something after fifty years of living with your father.’
‘The Hardcastles hate her, you know. Evelyn, I mean.’
‘Who’s filled your head with that rot?’ says Millicent, gripping my arm while she shakes her foot, trying to dislodge some mud from her boot. ‘Michael adores her. He’s over in Paris almost every month, and from what I understand they’ve been thick as thieves since she got back. And Peter doesn’t hate her, he’s indifferent. It’s only Helena, and she’s never been quite right since Thomas died. Still comes up here, you know. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she takes a walk around the lake, even talks to him sometimes. Heard her myself.’
The path has brought us to the reflecting pool. This is where Evelyn will take her life tonight, and as with everything at Blackheath, its beauty is dependent on distance. Viewed from the ballroom the reflecting pool’s a magnificent sight, a long mirror conveying all the drama of the house. Here and now though, it’s just a filthy pond, the stone cracked, moss growing thick as carpet on the surface.
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 16