Why take her life here? Why not in her bedroom, or the entrance hall?
‘Are you okay, dear?’ asks Millicent. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘I was thinking it’s a shame they’ve let the place go,’ I say, hoisting a smile onto my face.
‘Oh, I know, but what could they do?’ she says, adjusting her scarf. ‘After the murder they couldn’t live here, and nobody wants these big piles any more, especially not when they have Blackheath’s history. Should have left it to the forest, if you ask me.’
It’s a maudlin thought, but nothing lingers in Jonathan Derby’s mind for too long and I’m soon distracted by the preparations for tonight’s party, which I can see through the ballroom windows beside us. Servants and workmen are scrubbing the floors and painting the walls, while maids balance on teetering stepladders with long feather dusters. At the far end of the hall, bored-looking musicians are scraping semiquavers off the surface of their polished instruments as Evelyn Hardcastle points and gesticulates, arranging things from the centre of the room. She’s flitting from group to group, touching arms and spreading kindness, making me ache for that afternoon we spent together.
I search for Madeline Aubert, finding her laughing with Lucy Harper – the maid abused by Stanwin and befriended by Ravencourt – the two of them arranging a chaise longue by the stage. That these two mistreated women have found each other brings me a small measure of comfort, though it by no means alleviates my guilt over this morning’s events.
‘I told you last time I wouldn’t clean up another of your indiscretions,’ says Millicent sharply, her entire body stiff.
She’s watching me watching the maids. Loathing and love swirl within her eyes, the shape of Derby’s secrets visible in the fog. What I’d only vaguely understood before, now stands in stark relief. Derby’s a rapist, more than once over. They’re all there, held in Millicent’s gaze, every woman he’s attacked, every life he’s destroyed. She carries them all. Whatever darkness lurks inside Jonathan Derby, Millicent tucked it in at night.
‘It’s always the weak ones with you, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Always the—’
She falls silent, her mouth hanging open as though the next words simply evaporated on her lips.
‘I have to go,’ she says suddenly, squeezing my hand. ‘I’ve had a very strange thought. I’ll see you at dinner, darling.’
Without another word Millicent turns back the way we came, disappearing around the corner of the house. Perplexed, I look back into the ballroom, trying to see what she saw, but everybody’s moved around except for the band. That’s when I notice the chess piece on the window ledge. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same hand-carved piece I found in Bell’s trunk, speckled with white paint and looking at me through clumsily whittled eyes. There’s a message etched into the dirt on the glass above it.
Behind you.
Sure enough Anna’s waving at me from the edge of the forest, her tiny body shrouded by a grey coat. Pocketing the chess piece, I glance left and right to make sure we’re alone, and then follow her deeper into the trees, beyond Blackheath’s sight. She looks to have been waiting for some time and is dancing from foot to foot to keep warm. Judging by her blue cheeks, it’s not doing the blindest bit of good. Little wonder given her attire. She’s draped in shades of grey, her coat threadbare, her knitted hat thin as gossamer. These are clothes passed down and down and down, patched so many times the original material is long gone.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got an apple or something,’ she says without preamble. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘I’ve got a hip flask,’ I say, holding it out to her.
‘Have to do I suppose,’ she says, taking it from me and unscrewing the cap.
‘I thought it was too dangerous for us to meet outside of the gatehouse.’
‘Who told you that?’ she asks, wincing as she tastes the flask’s contents.
‘You did,’ I say.
‘Will.’
‘What?’
‘I will tell you it isn’t safe for us to meet, but I haven’t yet,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t have, I’ve only been awake a few hours, and I’ve spent most of that time keeping the footman from making pincushions out of your future hosts. Missed breakfast doing it, too.’
I blink at her, struggling to stitch together a day being delivered in the wrong order. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing for the speed of Ravencourt’s mind. Working within the confines of Jonathan Derby’s intellect is like stirring croutons into a thick soup.
Seeing my confusion, she frowns.
‘Do you know about the footman yet? I never know where we’re up to.’
I very quickly tell her about Bell’s dead rabbit and the ghostly steps that dogged Ravencourt in the dining hall, her expression darkening with each fresh detail.
‘That bastard,’ she splutters, when I’m finished. She’s prowling back and forth, her hands clenched and shoulders rolled forwards. ‘Wait until I get my hands on him,’ she says, shooting the house a murderous glance.
‘You won’t have to wait long,’ I say. ‘Daniel thinks he’s hiding in some tunnels. There’s a few entrances, but we’re going to guard the library. He wants us in there before one.’
‘Or we could slit our own throats and save the footman the bother of killing us,’ she says, her tone frank and unimpressed. She’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The footman’s not an idiot,’ she says. ‘If we know where he is, it’s because we’re supposed to know. He’s been one step ahead of us since this started. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he’s lying in wait, hoping to trip us up on our own cleverness.’
‘We have to do something!’ I protest.
‘We will, but what’s the point of doing something stupid when we can do something smart,’ she says patiently. ‘Listen to me, Aiden, I know you’re desperate, but we’ve got a deal, you and me. I keep you alive so you can find Evelyn’s killer, and then we both get out of here. This is me, doing my job. Now promise me, you won’t go after the footman.’
Her argument makes sense, but it’s weightless against my fear. If there’s a chance to put an end to this madman before he finds me, I’m going to take it, no matter the risk. I’d rather die on my feet than cowering in a corner.
‘I promise,’ I say, adding another lie to the pile.
Thankfully, Anna’s too cold to notice the catch in my voice. Despite having drunk from the hip flask, she’s shivering so hard all the colour has abandoned her face. In an attempt to shelter from the wind, she presses against me. I can smell the soap on her skin, forcing me to avert my gaze. I don’t want her to see Derby’s lust squirming within me.
Sensing my discomfort, she tilts her head to meet my downcast face.
‘Your other hosts are better, I promise,’ she says. ‘You have to keep hold of yourself. Don’t give in to him.’
‘How do I do that when I don’t know where they start and I begin?’
‘If you weren’t here, Derby would have his hands all over me,’ she says. ‘That’s how you know who you are. You don’t just remember it, you do it, and you keep doing it.’
Even so, she takes a step back into the wind, freeing me from my discomfort.
‘You shouldn’t be out in this weather,’ I say, removing my scarf and wrapping it around her neck. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘And if you keep this up, people might begin mistaking Jonathan Derby for a human being,’ she says, tucking the loose ends of the scarf into her coat.
‘Tell Evelyn Hardcastle that,’ I say. ‘She nearly shot me this morning.’
‘You should have shot her back,’ says Anna matter-of-factly. ‘We could have solved her murder then and there.’
‘I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,’ I say.
‘Of course I am,’ she says, blowing into her chapped hands. ‘If it were that simple, we’d have been out of here ages ago. Mind you, I’m no
t sure trying to save her life is a much better plan.’
‘You think I should let her die?’
‘I think we’re spending a lot of time not doing the thing we’ve been asked to do.’
‘We can’t protect Evelyn without knowing who wants her dead,’ I say. ‘One thing will give us the other.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ she says dubiously.
I search for some encouraging platitude, but her doubts have crawled under my skin, and they’re beginning to itch. I told her that saving Evelyn’s life would deliver us the murderer, but that was an evasion. There’s no plan here. I don’t even know if I can save Evelyn any more. I’m working at the behest of blind sentiment, and losing ground to the footman as I’m doing it. Anna deserves better, but I have no idea how to give it to her without abandoning Evelyn – and for some reason the thought of doing that is unbearable to me.
There’s a commotion on the path, voices carried through the trees by the wind. Taking my arm, Anna pulls me further into the forest.
‘As fun as this has been, I came to ask for a favour.’
‘Always, what can I do?’
‘What’s the time?’ she says, pulling the artist’s sketchbook from her pocket. It’s the same one I saw her holding in the gatehouse, crumpled sheets and a cover riddled with holes. She’s holding it up so I can’t see inside, but, judging by the way she’s flicking through the pages, it says something important.
I check my watch. ‘It’s 10:08 a.m.,’ I say, itching with curiosity. ‘What’s in the book?’
‘Notes, information; everything I’ve managed to learn about your eight hosts and what they’re doing,’ she says absently, running her finger down one of the pages. ‘And don’t ask to see it because you can’t. We can’t risk you pulling the day down around our ears with what you know.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ I protest, hastily averting my eyes.
‘Right, 10:08 a.m. Perfect. In a minute, I’m going to put a rock on the grass. I need you standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. You can’t move, Aiden, not an inch, understand?’
‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’
‘Call it Plan B.’ She pecks me on the cheek, cold lips meeting numb flesh, as she slides the book back in her pocket.
She’s only taken a step when she clicks her fingers and turns back to me, holding out two white tablets in her palm.
‘Take these for later,’ she says. ‘I filched them from Doctor Dickie’s bag when he came to see the butler.’
‘What are they?’
‘Headache pills, I’ll trade them for my chess piece.’
‘This ugly old thing?’ I say, handing her the hand-carved bishop. ‘Why would you want it?’
She smiles at me, watching as I wrap the tablets in a blue pocket handkerchief.
‘Because you gave it to me,’ she says, clutching it protectively in her hand. ‘It was the first promise you made me. This ugly old thing is the reason I stopped being scared of this place. It’s the reason I stopped being scared of you.’
‘Me? Why would you be afraid of me?’ I say, genuinely hurt by the idea of anything coming between us.
‘Oh, Aiden,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘If we do this right, everybody in this house is going to be afraid of you.’
She’s carried away on those words, blown through the trees and out onto the grass surrounding the reflecting pool. Perhaps it’s her youth, or her personality, or some curious alchemy of all the miserable ingredients surrounding us, but I can’t see an ounce of doubt within her. Whatever her plan, she seems extraordinarily confident in it. Maybe dangerously so.
From my position in the treeline, I watch her pick up a large white rock from the flower bed and pace out six steps before dropping it on the grass. Holding an arm straight out from her body, she measures a line to the ballroom’s French doors, and then, seemingly satisfied with her work, she wipes the mud from her hands, shoves them in her pockets and strolls away.
For some reason, this little display makes me uneasy.
I came here voluntarily, and Anna did not. The Plague Doctor brought her to Blackheath for a reason, and I have no idea what that could be.
Whoever Anna really is, I’m following her blindly.
25
The bedroom door’s locked, no noise coming from inside. I’d hoped to catch Helena Hardcastle before she set about her day, but it appears the lady of the house is not one to idle. I rattle the handle again, pressing my ear to the wood. Aside from a few curious glances from passing guests, my efforts are in vain. She’s not here.
I’m walking away, when the thought hits me: the room hasn’t been broken into yet. Ravencourt will find the door shattered early this afternoon, so it’s going to happen in the next few hours.
I’m curious to see who’s responsible, and why they’re so desperate to get inside. I’d originally suspected Evelyn because she had one of the two revolvers stolen from Helena’s bureau, but she nearly killed me with it in the forest this morning. If it’s already in her possession, she has no need to break in.
Unless there’s something else she wants.
The only other thing that was obviously missing was the appointments page in Helena’s day-planner. Millicent believed Helena tore it out herself to conceal some suspicious deed, but Cunningham’s fingerprints were all over the remaining pages. He refused to explain himself, and denied being responsible for the break-in, but if I could catch him with his shoulder to the door, he’d have no choice but to come clean.
My mind made up, I stride into the shadows at the far end of the corridor and begin my vigil.
Five minutes later, Derby is already impossibly bored.
I’m fidgeting, stalking back and forth. I can’t calm him.
At a loss, I follow the smell of breakfast towards the drawing room, planning to carry a plate of food and a chair back to the corridor. Hopefully, they’ll placate my host for half an hour, after which time I’ll have to come up with some new amusement.
I find the room smothered in sleepy conversation. Most of the guests are only halfway out of their beds and they reek of the prior evening, sweat and cigar smoke baked into their skin, spirits curled around every breath. They’re talking quietly and moving slowly, porcelain people riddled with cracks.
Taking a plate from the sideboard, I scoop piles of eggs and kidneys onto a large plate, pausing to eat a sausage from the platter and wipe the grease from my lips with my sleeve. I’m so preoccupied, it takes a little while to realise everybody’s gone silent.
A burly fellow is standing at the door, his gaze passing from face to face, relief coursing through those he slips over. This nervousness is not unwarranted. He’s a brutish-looking chap with a ginger beard and sagging cheeks, his nose so mangled it resembles an egg cracked in a frying pan. An old frayed suit strains to contain his width, raindrops sparkling on shoulders you could serve a buffet on.
His gaze lands on me like a boulder in the lap.
‘Mr Stanwin wants to see you,’ he says.
His voice is coarse, filled with jagged consonants.
‘What for?’ I ask.
‘I expect he’ll tell you.’
‘Well, offer my regrets to Mr Stanwin, but I’m afraid I’m very busy at present.’
‘Either you walk or I carry you,’ he says in a low rumble.
Derby’s temper is bubbling nicely, but there’s no use making a scene. I can’t beat this man; the best I can hope for is to quickly meet Stanwin and return to my task. Besides, I’m curious why he’d want to see me.
Placing my plate of food on the sideboard, I rise to follow Stanwin’s thug from the room. Inviting me to walk ahead of him, the burly fellow guides me up the staircase, telling me to turn right at the top, into the closed-off east wing. Brushing aside the curtain, a damp breeze touches my face, a long corridor stretching out before me. Doors are hanging off their hinges, revealing state rooms covered in dust and four-poster beds collapsed in on themselves.
The air scratches my throat as I breathe it.
‘Why don’t you wait in that room over there like a good gentleman and I’ll tell Mr Stanwin you’ve arrived,’ says my escort, jerking his chin towards a room on my left.
Doing as he bids, I enter a nursery, the cheerful yellow wallpaper now hanging limp from the walls. Games and wooden toys litter the floor, a weathered rocking horse put out to pasture by the door. There’s a game in progress on a child’s chessboard, the white pieces decimated by the black.
No sooner have I set foot inside than I hear Evelyn shrieking in the room beside me. For the first time Derby and I move in concert, sprinting around the corner to find the door blocked by the red-headed thug.
‘Mr Stanwin’s still busy, chum,’ he says, rocking back and forth to keep warm.
‘I’m looking for Evelyn Hardcastle, I heard her scream,’ I say breathlessly.
‘Mayhap you did, but doesn’t seem like there’s much you can do about it, does there?’
I peer over his shoulder into the room behind, hoping to catch sight of Evelyn. It looks to be some sort of reception area, but it’s empty. The furniture lies under yellowed sheets, black mould growing up from the hems. The windows are covered in old newspaper, the walls little more than rotting boards. There’s another door on the far wall, but it’s closed. They must be in there.
I return my gaze to the man, who smiles at me, exposing a row of crooked yellow teeth.
‘Anything else?’ he says.
‘I need to make sure she’s all right.’
I try to barge past him, but it’s a foolish notion. He’s three times my weight and half again my height. More to the point, he knows how to use his strength. Planting a flat hand on my stomach, he shoves me backwards, barely a flicker of emotion on his face.
‘Don’t bother,’ he says. ‘I’m paid to stand here and make sure nice gentlemen like you don’t do themselves a misfortune by wandering places they ain’t supposed to go.’
They’re just words, coals in the furnace. My blood’s boiling. I try to dart around him and like a fool I think I’ve succeeded until I’m hoisted backwards, and tossed bodily back down the corridor.
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 17