‘Very well,’ I say, waving him away.
‘Thank you, Father,’ he says, escaping the room before I can change my mind. In his absence my breathing eases, my hands unclench. Anger takes its arms from around my chest, leaving me free to investigate the room for some reflection of its owner.
Books lie three thick on the bedside table, all dealing in the murky details of law. My invitation to the ball is being used as a bookmark and is addressed to Edward and Rebecca Dance. That name alone is enough to make me crumble. I remember Rebecca’s face, her smell. The feeling of being near her. My fingers find the locket around my neck, her portrait cradled inside. Dance’s grief is a quiet ache, a single tear once a day. It’s the only luxury he allows himself.
Pushing aside the grief, I drum the invite with my finger.
‘Dance,’ I murmur.
A peculiar name for such a joyless man.
Knocking perforates the silence, the handle turning and the door opening seconds later. The fellow who enters is large and shambling, scratching a head full of white hair, dislodging dandruff in every direction. He’s wearing a rumpled blue suit below white whiskers and bloodshot red eyes, and would look quite frightful if it weren’t for the comfort with which he carries his dishevelment.
He pauses mid-scratch, blinking at me in bewilderment.
‘This your room is it, Edward?’ asks the stranger.
‘Well, I woke up here,’ I say warily.
‘Blast, I can’t remember where they put me.’
‘Where did you sleep last night?’
‘Sun Room,’ he says, scratching an armpit. ‘Herrington bet me I couldn’t finish a bottle of port in under fifteen minutes, and that’s the last thing I remember until that scoundrel Gold woke me up this morning, ranting and raving like a lunatic.’
The mention of Gold takes me back to his rambling warning last night, and the scars on his arm. Don’t get out of the carriage, he’d said. Does that suggest I’ll be leaving at some point? Or taking a journey? I already know I can’t reach the village, so it seems unlikely.
‘Did Gold say anything?’ I ask. ‘Do you know where he was going, or what his plans were?’
‘I didn’t stop and sup with the man, Dance,’ he says dismissively. ‘I took his measure, and let him know in no uncertain terms I had my eye on him.’ He glances around. ‘Did I leave a bottle in here? Need something to quieten this damnable headache.’
I’ve barely opened my mouth to respond when he starts rooting through my drawers, leaving them standing open as he turns his assault upon the wardrobe. After patting down the pockets of my suits, he spins, surveying the room as though he’s just heard a lion in the bushes.
Another knock, another face. This one belongs to Commander Clifford Herrington, the boring naval chap who was sitting next to Ravencourt at dinner.
‘Come along, you two,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘Old Hardcastle’s waiting for us.’
Freed from the blight of strong alcohol, he’s straight-backed and authoritative.
‘Any idea what he wants from us?’ I ask.
‘None whatsoever, but I expect he’ll tell us when we get there,’ he responds, briskly.
‘I need my walking Scotch,’ says my companion.
‘There’s sure to be some over at the gatehouse, Sutcliffe,’ says Herrington, not bothering to hide his impatience. ‘Besides, you know Hardcastle, he’s damned serious these days, probably best if we don’t turn up half-cut.’
Such is the strength of my connection to Dance that the mere mention of Lord Hardcastle causes me to puff out my cheeks in annoyance. My host’s presence in Blackheath is a matter of obligation, a fleeting visit lasting only so long as it takes to conclude his business with the family. In contrast, I’m desperate to question the master of the house about his missing wife, and my enthusiasm for our meeting is rubbing up against Dance’s agitation like sandpaper on skin.
Somehow, I’m annoying myself.
Badgered once again by the impatient naval officer, the shambling Sutcliffe holds up a hand, begging an extra minute, before turning his desperate fingers loose among my shelves. Sniffing the air, he lurches towards the bed, lifting the mattress to reveal a pilfered bottle of Scotch on the springs.
‘Lead on, Herrington, old boy,’ he says magnanimously, unscrewing the cap and taking a hearty slug.
Shaking his head, Herrington gestures us out into the corridor, where Sutcliffe begins telling a boisterous joke at the top of his voice, his friend trying, unsuccessfully, to quieten him. They’re buffoons both, their good cheer possessing an arrogance that sets my teeth on edge. My host has little time for excess of any kind and would happily stride off ahead, but I do not want to walk these corridors alone. As a compromise, I follow two steps behind, far enough away that I don’t have to join the conversation, but close enough to give the footman pause should he be lurking nearby.
We’re met at the bottom of the stairs by somebody called Christopher Pettigrew, who turns out to be the oily chap Daniel was conferring with at dinner. He’s a thin man, built to sneer, with dark, greasy hair swept over to one side. He’s as stooping and sly as I remember, his gaze running its hands through my pockets before taking in my face. I wondered two nights ago if he might be a future host, but if so I must have given myself freely to his vices as he’s already soft with alcohol, happily taking up the bottle being shared between his chums. It never veers in my direction, meaning I never have to refuse. Clearly, Edward Dance stands apart from this rabble and I’m happy it’s so. They’re a queer bunch; friends certainly, but desperately so, like three men stranded on the same island. Thankfully, their good cheer fades the further we draw from the house, their laughter whipped away by the wind and rain, the bottle forced into a warm pocket along with the cold hand holding it.
‘Did anybody else get yapped at by Ravencourt’s poodle this morning?’ says the oily Pettigrew, who’s little more than a pair of deceitful eyes above a scarf at this point. ‘What’s his name again?’
He clicks his fingers trying to summon the memory.
‘Charles Cunningham,’ I say distantly, only half listening. Further along the path, I’m certain I saw somebody shadowing us in the trees. Just a flash, enough for doubt, except they appeared to be wearing a footman’s livery. My hand goes to my throat, and for an instant I feel his blade again.
Shuddering, I squint at the trees, trying to wring some use out of Dance’s awful eyes, but if it was my enemy, he’s gone now.
‘That’s the one, Charles bloody Cunningham,’ says Pettigrew.
‘Was he asking about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder?’ says Herrington, his face turned resolutely towards the wind, no doubt a habit of his naval background. ‘I heard he was up visiting Stanwin this morning, collared him first thing,’ he adds.
‘Damned impertinent,’ says Pettigrew. ‘What about you Dance, did he come sniffing around?’
‘Not that I’m aware,’ I say, still staring at the forest. We’re passing close to the spot where I thought I spotted the footman, but now I see the splash of colour is a red trail marker nailed to a tree. My imagination’s painting monsters in the woods.
‘What did Cunningham want?’ I say, reluctantly returning my attention to my companions.
‘It’s not him,’ says Pettigrew. ‘He was asking questions on behalf of Ravencourt, seems the fat old banker’s taken an interest in Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’
That brings me up short. Of all the tasks I set Cunningham when I was Ravencourt, asking questions about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder wasn’t one of them. Whatever Cunningham’s doing, he’s using Ravencourt’s name to curry favour. Perhaps this is part of the secret he was so keen to keep me from revealing, the secret which still needs to find its way into an envelope beneath the chair in the library.
‘What sort of questions?’ I say, my interest kindled for the first time.
‘Kept asking me about the second killer, the one Stanwin said he clipped with his sho
tgun before he escaped,’ says Herrington, who’s tipping a hip flask to his lips. ‘Wanted to know if there were any rumours about who they were, any descriptions.’
‘Were there?’ I ask.
‘Never heard anything,’ says Herrington. ‘Wouldn’t have told him if I had. Sent him away with a flea in his ear.’
‘Not surprised Cecil’s got Cunningham on it though,’ adds Sutcliffe, scratching his whiskers. ‘He’s thick as thieves with every charwoman and gardener who ever took a shilling at Blackheath, probably knows more about this place than we do.’
‘How’s that?’ I ask.
‘He was living here when the murder happened,’ says Sutcliffe, glancing over his shoulder at me. ‘Just a boy back then, of course, bit older than Evelyn, as I remember. Rumour had it he was Peter’s bastard. Helena gave him to the cook to raise, or something like that. Never could work out who she was punishing.’
His voice is thoughtful, a rather strange sound coming from this shaggy, shapeless creature. ‘Pretty little thing that cook, lost her husband in the war,’ he muses. ‘The Hardcastles paid for the boy’s education, even got him the job with Ravencourt when he came of age.’
‘What’s Ravencourt want with a nineteen-year-old murder?’ asks Pettigrew.
‘Due diligence,’ says Herrington bluntly, stepping around horse manure. ‘Ravencourt’s buying a Hardcastle, he wants to know what baggage she’s bringing along.’
Their conversation swiftly frays into trivialities, but my thoughts remain fixed on Cunningham. Last night, he pressed a note into Derby’s hand that read ‘all of them’ and told me he was rounding up guests on behalf of a future host. That would suggest I can trust him, but he clearly has his own agenda in Blackheath. I know he’s Peter Hardcastle’s illegitimate son, and that he’s asking questions about the murder of his half-brother. Somewhere between those two facts is a secret he’s so desperate to keep, he’s allowed himself to be blackmailed with it.
I grit my teeth. For once, it would be refreshing to find somebody in this place who was exactly what they appeared to be.
Passing the cobbled path towards the stables, we push south along the never-ending road into the village, before finally coming upon the gatehouse. One by one we fill the narrow corridor, hanging our coats and shaking the rain free of our clothes while complaining about the conditions outside.
‘Through here, chaps,’ says a voice from behind a door on our right.
We follow the voice into a gloomy sitting room lit by an open fire, where Lord Peter Hardcastle is sitting in an armchair near the window. He has one leg flung across the other, a book flat on his lap. He’s somewhat older than his portrait suggested, though still broad chested and fit-looking. Dark eyebrows slide towards each other in a V-shape, pointing towards a long nose and mopey mouth curved downwards at the edges. A ragged spectre of beauty suggests itself, but his stash of splendour has almost run dry.
‘Why the hell are we meeting all the way out here?’ asks Pettigrew grumpily, dropping into a chair. ‘You’ve a perfectly good...’ – he waves in the direction of Blackheath – ‘well, you’ve got something that resembles a house down the road.’
‘That damn house has been a curse on this family ever since I was a boy,’ says Peter Hardcastle, pouring drinks into five glasses. ‘I won’t set foot inside until it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before throwing history’s most tasteless party,’ says Pettigrew. ‘Do you really intend on announcing Evelyn’s engagement on the anniversary of your own son’s murder?’
‘Do you think any of this is my idea?’ asks Hardcastle, slamming the bottle down and glaring at Pettigrew. ‘Do you think I want to be here?’
‘Easy, Peter,’ soothes Sutcliffe, shambling over to awkwardly pat his friend’s shoulder. ‘Christopher’s grumpy because, well, he’s Christopher.’
‘Of course,’ says Hardcastle, whose red cheeks suggest anything but understanding. ‘It’s just... Helena’s acting damn queer, and now all this. It’s been quite trying.’
He goes back to pouring drinks, an uneasy silence gagging everything but the rain thumping on the windows.
Personally I’m glad of the quiet, and the chair.
My companions walked quickly and keeping up was a chore. I need to catch my breath and pride dictates that nobody notice me doing it. In lieu of conversation, I look around the room, but there’s little worthy of scrutiny. It’s long and narrow, with furniture piled up against the walls like wreckage on a riverbank. The carpet is worn through, the flowery wallpaper gaudy. Age is thick in the air, as though the last owners sat here until they crumbled into dust. It’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as the east wing, where Stanwin has sequestered himself, but it’s still an odd place to find the lord of the house.
I’ve not had cause to ask what Lord Hardcastle’s role in his daughter’s murder might be, but his choice of lodging suggests he’s looking to stay out of sight. The question is, what is he doing with that anonymity?
Drinks are deposited before us, Hardcastle resuming his former seat. He’s rolling his glass between his palms, gathering his thoughts. There’s an endearing awkwardness to his manner that immediately reminds me of Michael.
To my left, Sutcliffe – who’s already halfway through his Scotch and soda – digs a document from his jacket and hands it to me, indicating that I should pass it along to Hardcastle. It’s a marriage contract drafted by the firm Dance, Pettigrew & Sutcliffe. Evidently, myself, the lugubrious Philip Sutcliffe and the oily Christopher Pettigrew are business partners. Even so, I’m certain Hardcastle hasn’t brought us here to talk about Evelyn’s nuptials. He’s too distracted for that, too fidgety. Besides, why request Herrington’s presence if you only needed your solicitors.
Confirming my suspicion, Hardcastle takes the contract from me, offering it the faintest of glances before dropping it on the table.
‘Dance and I worked on it ourselves,’ says Sutcliffe, rising to fetch another drink. ‘Have Ravencourt and Evelyn put their signatures on the bottom and you’re a rich man again. Ravencourt will pay a lump sum upon signing, with the outstanding amount held in trust until after the ceremony. In a couple of years he’ll take Blackheath off your hands as well. Not a bad piece of work if I do say so myself.’
‘Where is old Ravencourt?’ asks Pettigrew, glancing at the door. ‘Shouldn’t he be here for this?’
‘Helena’s looking after him,’ says Hardcastle, taking a wooden case from the lintel above the fireplace and opening it to reveal rows of fat cigars that draw childish coos from the party. Declining one, I watch Hardcastle as he offers them around. His smile hides a dreadful eagerness, his pleasure in this display a foundation for other matters.
He wants something.
‘How is Helena?’ I ask, tasting my drink. It’s water. Dance doesn’t even allow himself the pleasure of alcohol. ‘All of this must be hard on her.’
‘ I should hope so, it was her damn idea to come back,’ snorts Hardcastle, taking a cigar for himself and closing the box. ‘You know, a chap wants to do his best, be supportive, but dash it all, I’ve barely seen her since we got here. Can’t get two words out of the woman. If I were a spiritual sort of fellow, I’d think her possessed.’
Matches are passing from hand to hand, each man indulging his own cigar-lighting ritual. Forgoing Pettigrew’s back and forth motion, Herrington’s gentle touches and Sutcliffe’s circular theatrics, Hardcastle simply lights it, shooting me an exasperated glance.
A flicker of affection stirs within me, the remnants of some stronger emotion reduced to embers.
Blowing out a long trail of yellow smoke, Hardcastle settles back in his chair.
‘Gentleman, I invited you here today, because we all have something in common.’ His delivery is stiff, rehearsed. ‘We are all being blackmailed by Ted Stanwin, but I have a way to free us, if you’ll hear me out.’
He’s watching each of us for a reaction.
> Pettigrew and Herrington remain quiet, but the lumpen Sutcliffe splutters, taking a hasty gulp of his drink.
‘Go on, Peter,’ says Pettigrew.
‘I have something on Stanwin we can exchange for our freedom.’
The room is still. Pettigrew is on the edge of his seat, the cigar quite forgotten in his hands.
‘And why haven’t you used it already?’ he asks.
‘Because we’re in this together,’ says Hardcastle.
‘Because it’s damn risky more like,’ interjects a red-faced Sutcliffe. ‘You know what happens if one of us moves against Stanwin, he releases what he has on each of us, dropping us all in the pot. Exactly like Myerson’s lot.’
‘He’s bleeding us dry,’ says Hardcastle heatedly.
‘He’s bleeding you dry, Peter,’ says Sutcliffe, jabbing the table with a thick finger. ‘You’re about to make a pile out of Ravencourt and you don’t want Stanwin getting his hands on it.’
‘That devil’s had his hand in my pocket for nearly twenty years,’ exclaims Hardcastle, flushing a little. ‘How much longer can I be expected to let it go on?’
He turns his gaze on Pettigrew.
‘Come now, Christopher, surely you’re ready to listen to me. Stanwin’s the reason...’ – storm clouds of embarrassment drift across his grey face – ‘well, perhaps Elspeth wouldn’t have left if...’
Pettigrew sips at his drink, offering neither rebuke nor encouragement. Only I can see the heat rising up his neck, or how his fingers are squeezing the glass so tightly the skin behind his nails has turned white.
Hardcastle hurriedly turns his attention towards me.
‘We can rip Stanwin’s hand from our throat, but we need to confront him together,’ he says, striking a balled fist into his palm. ‘Only by showing that we’re all ready to act against him will he listen.’
Sutcliffe puffs up. ‘That’s—’
‘Quiet, Philip,’ interrupts Herrington, the naval officer’s eyes never leaving Hardcastle’s. ‘What have you got on Stanwin?’
Hardcastle flicks a suspicious glance at the door, before lowering his voice.
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 22