‘He has a child squirrelled away somewhere,’ he says. ‘He’s kept her hidden for fear she may be used against him, but Daniel Coleridge claims to have uncovered her name.’
‘The gambler?’ says Pettigrew. ‘How’s he mixed up in all of this?’
‘Didn’t seem prudent to ask, old chap,’ says Hardcastle, swirling his drink. ‘Some men walk in dark places the rest of us shouldn’t tread.’
‘Word has it he pays half the servants in London for information on their masters,’ says Herrington, pulling his lip. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the same was true of Blackheath, and Stanwin certainly worked here long enough to have let a secret slip. There could be something in this, you know.’
Hearing them discuss Daniel gives me an odd tingle of excitement. I’ve known for some time he’s my final host, but he’s been operating so far in my future, I’ve never truly felt connected to him. To see our investigations converging this way is like catching sight of something long sought on the horizon. Finally, there’s a road between us.
Hardcastle’s on his feet, warming his hands by the heat of the fire. Lit by the flames, it’s clear the years have taken more from him than they’ve given. Uncertainty is a crack through the centre of him, undermining any suggestion of solidity or strength. This man’s been broken in two and put back together crooked, and if I had to guess, I’d say there was a child-shaped hole right in the middle.
‘What does Coleridge want from us?’ I ask.
Hardcastle looks at me with flat, unseeing eyes.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
‘You said Daniel Coleridge has something on Stanwin, which means he wants something from us in exchange for it. I assume that’s why you’ve called us all together.’
‘Just so,’ says Hardcastle, fingering a loose button on his jacket. ‘He wants a favour.’
‘Only one?’ asks Pettigrew.
‘From each of us, with the promise that we’ll honour it whenever he calls upon us, no matter what it might be.’
Glances are exchanged, doubt handed from face to face. I feel like a spy in the enemy camp. I’m not certain what Daniel’s up to, but I’m obviously meant to help sway this argument in his favour. In my favour. Whatever this favour turns out to be, hopefully it will help free us and Anna from this dreadful place.
‘I’m for it,’ I say grandly. ‘Stanwin’s come-uppance is long overdue.’
‘I concur,’ says Pettigrew, waving cigar smoke from his face. ‘His hand has been around my neck for far too long already. What about you, Clifford?’
‘I agree,’ says the old sailor.
All heads turn to Sutcliffe, whose eyes are running circuits of the room.
‘We’re trading devils,’ says the shaggy lawyer eventually.
‘Perhaps,’ says Hardcastle, ‘but I’ve read my Dante, Philip. Not all hells are created equal. Now, what do you say?’
He nods grudgingly, eyes lowered to his glass.
‘Good,’ says Hardcastle. ‘I’ll meet with Coleridge and we’ll confront Stanwin before dinner. All being well, this will be over by the time we announce the wedding.’
‘And just like that we climb out of one pocket and into another,’ says Pettigrew, finishing off his drink. ‘How splendid it is to be a gentleman.’
35
Our business settled, Sutcliffe, Pettigrew and Herrington trail out of the sitting room in a long curl of cigar smoke, as Peter Hardcastle walks over to the gramophone on the sideboard. Wiping the dust from a record with a cotton handkerchief, he lowers the needle and flicks a switch, Brahms blowing out through the flared bronze tube.
Motioning to the others to go on without me, I close the door to the hallway. Peter’s taken a seat by the fire, a window opened on his thoughts. He’s yet to notice I’ve stayed behind and it feels as though some great chasm divides us, though in truth he’s only a step or two away.
Dance’s reticence in this matter is paralysing. As a man who despises interruption, he is equally wary of disturbing others, and the personal nature of the questions I must ask is only compounding the problem. I’m mired in my host’s manners. Two days ago, this wouldn’t have been an obstacle, but every host is stronger than the last, and fighting Dance is like trying to walk into a gale.
Decorum allows a polite cough, Hardcastle turning in his seat to find me by the door.
‘Ah, Dance old man,’ he says. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘I was hoping we could talk privately.’
‘Is there some problem with the contract?’ he says warily. ‘I must admit, I was worried Sutcliffe’s drinking might—’
‘It’s not Sutcliffe, it’s Evelyn,’ I say.
‘Evelyn,’ he says, wariness replaced by weariness. ‘Yes, of course. Come, sit by the fire, this damned house is draughty enough without inviting its chill.’
Giving me time to settle myself, he hitches his trouser leg, dancing a foot before the flames. Whatever his faults, his manners are meticulous.
‘So,’ he says after a moment, judging the rigours of etiquette to have been adequately obeyed. ‘What’s this about Evelyn? I assume she doesn’t want to go through with the wedding?’
Finding no easy way of framing the matter, I decide to simply toss it into his lap.
‘I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,’ I say. ‘Somebody’s set their mind to murdering your daughter.’
‘Murder?’
He frowns, smiling a little, waiting for the rest of the joke to present itself. Undone by my sincerity, he leans forward, confusion wrinkling his face.
‘You’re serious?’ he says, hands clasped.
‘I am.’
‘Do you know who, or why?’
‘Only how. She’s being compelled to commit suicide, otherwise somebody she loves will be murdered. The information was relayed in a letter.’
‘A letter?’ he scoffs. ‘Sounds damn iffy to me. Probably just a game. You know how these girls can be.’
‘It’s not a game, Peter,’ I say sternly, knocking the doubt from his face.
‘May I ask how you came by this information?’
‘The same way I come by all my information, I listen.’
He sighs, pinching his nose, weighing the facts and the man bringing them to him.
‘Do you believe somebody’s trying to sabotage our deal with Ravencourt?’ he asks.
‘I hadn’t considered it,’ I say, startled by his response. I’d expected him to be concerned for his daughter’s well-being, perhaps spurred into making plans to ensure her safety. But Evelyn’s incidental. The only loss he fears is that of his fortune.
‘Can you think of anybody whose interests would be served by Evelyn’s death?’ I say, struggling to contain my sudden distaste for this man.
‘One makes enemies, old families who’d happily see us ruined, but none of them would resort to this. Whispers are more their thing, gossip at parties, spiteful comments in The Times, you know how it is.’
He raps the arm of the chair in frustration.
‘Dash it all, Dance, are you sure about this? It seems so outlandish.’
‘I’m certain, and truth be told, my suspicions lie a little closer to home,’ I say.
‘One of the servants?’ he asks, lowering his voice, his gaze leaping to the door.
‘Helena,’ I say.
His wife’s name strikes him like a blow.
‘Helena, you must be... I mean... my dear man...’
His face is turning red, his words boiling over and spilling out of his mouth. I can feel a similar heat in my own cheeks. This line of questioning is poison to Dance.
‘Evelyn suggested the relationship was fractured,’ I say quickly, laying the words down like stones across a boggy field.
Hardcastle’s gone to the window, where he’s standing with his back to me. Civility clearly does not allow for confrontation, though I can see his body trembling, his hands clenched behind him.
‘I won’t deny Helena has no g
reat fondness for Evelyn, but without her we’ll be bankrupt in a couple of years,’ he says, measuring every word as he struggles to keep his anger in check. ‘She wouldn’t put our future in jeopardy.’
He didn’t say she’s not capable of it.
‘But—’
‘Damn it, Dance, what’s your interest in this slander?’ he shouts, yelling at my reflection in the glass so he doesn’t have to yell at me.
This is it. Dance knows Peter Hardcastle well enough to know he’s at the end of his patience. My next answer will decide whether he opens up, or points me towards the door. I need to choose my words carefully, which means pressing the thing he most cares about. Either I tell him I’m trying to save his daughter’s life or...
‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ I say, my voice conciliatory. ‘If somebody’s trying to sabotage this deal with Ravencourt, I must put a stop to it, both as your friend and your legal counsel.’
He sags.
‘Of course, you must,’ he says, looking at me over his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, old friend, it’s just... all this talk of murder... well, it’s stirring some old memories... you understand. Naturally, if you think Evelyn’s in danger, I’ll do everything I can to help, but you’re mistaken if you believe Helena would ever harm Evelyn. The relationship is strained, but they do love one another. I’m certain of it.’
I allow myself a small sigh of relief. Battling Dance has been exhausting, but finally I’m on the verge of some answers.
‘Your daughter contacted somebody called Felicity Maddox, claiming she was worried by Helena’s behaviour,’ I continue, obliging my host’s need to place the facts in their proper order. ‘She’s not on the guest list, but I believe Felicity came to the house to help, and there’s a possibility she’s now being held as collateral should Evelyn fail to go through with the suicide. Michael told me she was a childhood friend of your daughter’s, but couldn’t recall anything more about her. Do you remember this girl? Have you seen her around the house perhaps? I have reason to believe she was at liberty this morning.’
Hardcastle looks bewildered.
‘I don’t, though I must confess Evelyn and I haven’t spoken much since her return. The circumstances of her arrival, the marriage... they’ve put a barrier between us. It’s peculiar Michael wasn’t able to tell you more, though. They’ve been inseparable since she came back, and I know he visited often and wrote frequently while Evelyn was in Paris. I would expect him to know this Felicity, if anybody does.’
‘I’ll talk to him again, but the letter was correct, was it not? Helena has been acting oddly?’
The record catches on the gramophone, the soaring violin solo yanked back to earth over and over again, like a kite in a child’s overeager hands.
Peter glances at it, frowning, hoping his dissatisfaction alone will right it. Defeated, he moves to the gramophone, lifting the needle, blowing dust from the record and holding it up to the light.
‘It’s scratched,’ he says, with a shake of the head.
He replaces the record, new music taking flight.
‘Tell me about Helena,’ I nudge. ‘It was her idea to announce the engagement on the anniversary of Thomas’s death and throw the party in Blackheath, wasn’t it?’
‘She’s never forgiven Evelyn for abandoning Thomas that morning,’ he says, watching the record spin. ‘I confess, I thought the years might dull her pain, but’ – he spreads his arms – ‘all this, it’s so...’ He breathes deeply, composing himself. ‘Helena means to embarrass Evelyn, I admit. She calls the marriage a punishment, but it’s a rather fine match, if you look at the details. Ravencourt won’t lay a finger on Evelyn, told me as much himself. “I’m too old for all that” is what he said. She’ll have the run of his homes, nice allowance, any life she chooses, so long as it doesn’t embarrass him. In return, he’ll get... well, you know the rumours about his valets. Good-looking chaps coming and going at all hours. Scandalmongering is all it is, but the marriage will put a stop to it.’ He pauses, his stare defiant. ‘You see, Dance? Why would Helena arrange all of this if she meant to kill Evelyn? She wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Beneath it all, she loves Evelyn. Not well, I admit, but well enough. She needs to feel as if Evelyn has been thoroughly punished, and then she’ll start making it up to her. You’ll see. Helena will come around, and Evelyn will realise this marriage is a blessing in disguise. Believe me, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘I still need to speak with your wife, Peter.’
‘My organiser’s in the drawer; it has her appointments in it.’ He laughs grimly. ‘Our marriage is one of overlapping duties these days, but it should tell you where to find her.’
I rush to the drawer, unable to contain my excitement.
Somebody in the house, possibly Helena herself, tore these appointments from her day-planner to conceal her activities. Whoever did it either forgot, or didn’t know, that her husband kept his own copy, and now they’re in my hands. Here and now, we might finally discover what was worth all the trouble.
The drawer is stiff, swollen with damp. It comes open grudgingly, revealing a moleskin book held fast with string. Flipping through the pages, I quickly find Helena’s appointments, my ebullience draining out of me immediately. Most of them I already know about. Helena met with Cunningham at 7:30 a.m., though there’s no indication why. After that she arranged to see Evelyn at 8:15 a.m. and Millicent Derby at 9 a.m., both of which she missed. She has a meeting with the stablemaster at 11:30 a.m., which is in an hour’s time, and then she’s expected in Ravencourt’s parlour early this afternoon.
She won’t attend.
My finger roams the schedule, searching for something suspicious. Evelyn and Ravencourt I know about, and Millicent was an old friend, so that’s understandable, but what could be so urgent she’d need to see her husband’s bastard son first thing in the morning?
He refused to tell me when I asked, but he’s the only person who’s seen Helena Hardcastle today, which means I can no longer tolerate his evasions.
I must have the truth out of him.
Before that, I need to visit the stables.
For the first time, I know where the elusive lady of the house is going to be.
‘Do you know why Helena met Charles Cunningham this morning?’ I ask Peter, as I replace the organiser in the drawer.
‘Likely Helena wanted to say hello,’ he says, pouring himself another drink. ‘She was always close to the boy.’
‘Is Charles Cunningham the reason Stanwin’s blackmailing you?’ I ask. ‘Does Stanwin know he’s your son?’
‘Come now, Dance!’ he says, glaring at me.
I meet his gaze, my host’s too. Dance is slipping apologies onto my tongue, urging me to flee the room. It’s a bloody nuisance. Every time I open my mouth to speak, I have to force aside another man’s embarrassment first.
‘You know me, Peter, so you know what it takes for me to ask such a thing,’ I say. ‘I must have all the pieces of this nasty business to hand.’
He considers this, returning to the window with his drink. Not that there’s much to see. The trees have grown so close to the house the branches are pressed right up against the glass. Judging by Peter’s demeanour, he’d invite them inside now if he could.
‘Charles Cunningham’s parentage isn’t why I’m being blackmailed,’ he says. ‘That nugget of scandal was on every society page at one time, Helena made sure of it. There’s no money in it.’
‘Then what is it Stanwin knows?’
‘I need your word it won’t go any further,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ I say, my pulse quickening.
‘Well’ – he takes a fortifying sip of his drink – ‘before Thomas was murdered, Helena was having an affair with Charlie Carver.’
‘The man who murdered Thomas?’ I exclaim, sitting a little straighter in my chair.
‘They call this sort of thing cuckolding, don’t they?’ he says, standing stiff at the window. ‘In my case it’s an unu
sually perfect metaphor. He took my son from me and left his own child in my nest instead.’
‘His own child?’
‘Cunningham isn’t my illegitimate child, Dance. He’s my wife’s. Charlie Carver was his father.’
‘That blackguard!’ I exclaim, temporarily losing control of Dance, whose outrage mirrors my shock. ‘How on earth did this happen?’
‘Carver and Helena loved each other,’ he says ruefully. ‘Our marriage was never... I had the name, Helena’s family had the money. It was convenient, necessary one might say, but there was no affection. Carver and Helena grew up together, his father was the gamekeeper on her family’s estate. She kept their relationship from me, but brought Carver to Blackheath when we married. I’m sorry to say my indiscretions got back to her, our marriage faltered, and a year or so later she fell into Carver’s bed, becoming pregnant soon after.’
‘But you didn’t raise Cunningham as your own?’
‘No, she led me to believe it was mine during the pregnancy, but couldn’t be certain herself who the real father was, as I’d continued to... well, a man’s needs are... you understand?’
‘I believe I do,’ I say coldly, remembering the love and respect that governed Dance’s marriage for so long.
‘Anyway, I was out hunting when Cunningham was born, so she had the midwife smuggle him out of the house to be nursed in the village. When I returned, I was told the child died during the delivery, but six months later, when she was certain he didn’t look too much like Carver, the baby turned up on our doorstep, carried by some wench I’d had the misfortune to spend time with in London, who was happy enough to take my wife’s money and pretend it was mine. Helena played the victim, insisting we take the boy in, and to my shame I agreed. We handed the child to the cook, Mrs Drudge, who raised him as her own. Believe it or not, we actually managed to find several peaceful years after that. Evelyn, Thomas and Michael were born in short order, and for a while we were a happy family.’
All through the story I’ve watched his face for some emotion, but it’s been a bland recital of the facts. Once again I’m struck by the callowness of this man. An hour ago, I’d assumed Thomas’s death had reduced his feelings to ash, but now I wonder if that soil wasn’t always infertile. Nothing grows in this man but greed.
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 23