I watch him in fascination.
There’s something oddly precise about this man. His actions are small and quick, without any wasted effort. It’s as though he’s saving his energy for some great labor ahead.
For a minute or so, he stands at the window with his back to me, letting the room breathe cold air. I feel as though something is expected of me, that this pause has been manufactured for my benefit, but for the life of me, I can’t guess what I should be doing. No doubt sensing my indecision, he abandons his vigil, slipping his hands under my armpits and tugging me into a sitting position.
I pay for his assistance in shame.
My silk pajamas are soaked through with sweat, and the odor rising from my body is so pungent it brings tears to my eyes. Oblivious to my embarrassment, my companion retrieves the silver tray from the sideboard and places it on my lap, lifting the dome cover. The platter beneath is piled high with eggs and bacon, a side helping of pork chops, a pot of tea, and a jug of milk. Such a meal should be daunting, but I’m ravenous and tear into it like an animal, while the tall man—who I can only assume is my valet—disappears behind a screen, the sound of pouring water issuing forth.
Pausing for breath, I take this opportunity to examine my surroundings. In contrast to the frugal comforts of Bell’s bedroom, this place is awash in wealth. Red velvet drapes flow down the windows, piling up on a thick blue carpet. Art spots the walls, the lacquered mahogany furniture polished to a shine. Whoever I am, he’s held in high esteem by the Hardcastle family.
The valet returns to find me mopping grease from my lips with a napkin, panting with the effort of eating. He must be disgusted. I am disgusted. I feel like a pig in a trough. Even so, no flicker of emotion shows on his face as he removes the tray and slides my arm across his shoulders to better help me out of bed. God only knows how many times he’s been through this ritual, or what he’s paid to do it, but once is enough for me. Like a wounded soldier, he half walks, half drags me behind the screen where a steaming hot bath has been prepared.
That’s when he begins to undress me.
I have no doubt this is all part of the routine, but the shame’s too much to bear. Though this isn’t my body, I’m humiliated by it, appalled by the waves of flesh lapping against my hips, the way my legs rub together as I walk.
I shoo my companion away, but it’s pointless.
“My lord, you can’t…” He pauses, collecting his words together carefully. “You’re not going to be able to get in and out of the bath alone.”
I want to tell him to go hang, to leave me in peace, but he is, of course, correct.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I nod my submission.
In practiced motions, he unbuttons my pajama top and pulls down the bottoms, lifting my feet one at a time so I don’t become tangled in them. In a few seconds I’m naked, my companion standing at a respectful distance.
Opening my eyes, I find myself reflected in a full-length mirror on the wall. I resemble some grotesque caricature of the human body, my skin jaundiced and swollen, a flaccid penis peeking out of an unkempt crop of pubic hair.
Overcome by disgust and humiliation, I let out a sob.
Surprise lights up the valet’s face and then, just for a moment, delight. It’s a patch of raw emotion, gone as quickly as it appeared.
Hurrying over, he helps me into the bathtub.
I remember the euphoria I felt climbing into the hot water as Bell, but there’s none of that now. My immense weight means the joy of getting into a warm bath is eclipsed by the certain humiliation of getting out of it again.
“Will you require the reports this morning, Lord Ravencourt?” asks my companion.
Sitting stiff in the bath, I shake my head, hoping he’ll leave the room.
“The house has prepared a few activities for the day: hunting, a forest walk, they asked—”
I shake my head again, staring at the water. How much more must I endure?
“Very well, then it’s just the appointments.”
“Cancel them,” I say quietly. “Cancel them all.”
“Even with Lady Hardcastle, my lord?”
I find his green eyes for the first time. The Plague Doctor claimed I must solve a murder to depart this house, and who better than the lady of the house to help me sift through its secrets.
“No, not that one,” I say. “Remind me where we’re meeting again?”
“One thirty in your parlor, my lord. Unless you wanted me to change it?”
“No, that will suffice.”
“Very well, my lord.”
The last of our business concluded, he departs with a nod, leaving me to wallow in peace, alone with my misery.
Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the edge of the bath, trying to make sense of my situation. Finding their soul cut loose from their body would suggest death to some, but deep down I know this isn’t the afterlife. Hell would have fewer servants and better furnishings, and stripping a man of his sins seems a poor way to sit in judgment on him.
No, I’m alive, though not in any state I recognize. This is something next to death, something more devious, and I’m not alone. The Plague Doctor claimed there are three of us competing to escape Blackheath. Could the footman who left me the dead rabbit be trapped as I am? That would explain why he’s trying to scare me. After all, a race is hard to win if you’re afraid of reaching the finish line. Perhaps this is what the Plague Doctor considers entertainment, setting us against each other, like half-starved dogs in a pit.
Maybe you should trust him.
“So much for trauma,” I mutter at the voice. “I thought I’d left you in Bell.”
I know it’s a lie even as I say it. I’m connected to this voice in the same way I’m connected to the Plague Doctor and the footman. I can feel the weight of our history, even if I can’t remember it. They’re part of everything that’s happening to me, pieces of this puzzle I’m scrambling to solve. Whether they’re friends or enemies I can’t be certain, but whatever the voice’s true nature, it hasn’t led me astray so far.
Even so, trusting my captor strikes me as naive at best. The idea that all of this will end should I solve a murder seems preposterous. Whatever the Plague Doctor’s intent, he came concealed by mask and midnight. He’s wary of being seen, which means there’s leverage to be found in ripping that mask free.
I glance at the clock, weighing my options.
I know he’ll be in the study talking with Sebastian Bell—a previous me, I still can’t quite wrap my head around it!—after the hunt departs, which would seem an ideal time to intercept him. If he wishes me to solve a murder, I’ll do so, but it won’t be my only task today. If I’m to ensure my freedom, I must know the identity of the man who has taken it from me, and for that I’m going to need some help.
By the Plague Doctor’s count, I’ve already wasted three of my eight days in this house, those belonging to Sebastian Bell, the butler, and Donald Davies. Including myself, that means I have five remaining hosts, and if Bell’s encounter with the butler is any guide, they’re walking around Blackheath, as I am.
That’s an army in waiting.
I just need to work out who they’re wearing.
12
The water’s long cold, leaving me blue and shivering. Vainglorious though it may be, I can’t bear the thought of Ravencourt’s valet lifting me out of this bath like a sodden sack of potatoes.
A polite knock on the bedroom door relieves me of the decision.
“Lord Ravencourt, is all well?” he calls, entering the room.
“Quite well,” I insist, my hands numb.
His head appears around the edge of the screen, his eyes taking hold of the scene. After a moment’s scrutiny, he approaches without my beckoning, rolling up his sleeves to pull me out of the water with a strength that belies his thin frame.
Thi
s time I do not protest. I have too little pride left to salvage.
As he helps me out of the bathtub, I spot the edge of a tattoo poking from beneath his shirt. It’s smeared green, the details lost. Noticing my attention, he hurriedly pulls his sleeve down.
“Folly of youth, my lord,” he says.
For ten minutes I stand there, quietly humiliated, as he towels me dry, mothering me into my suit; one leg then the next, one arm then the other. The clothes are silk, beautifully tailored but tugging and pinching like a roomful of elderly aunts. They’re a size too small, fitting Ravencourt’s vanity rather than his body. When all is done, the valet combs my hair, rubbing coconut oil into my fleshy face before handing me a mirror that I might better inspect the results. The reflection is nearing sixty, with suspiciously black hair and brown eyes the color of weak tea. I search them for some sign of myself, the hidden man working Ravencourt’s strings, but I’m obscured. For the first time, I wonder who I was before coming here, and the chain of events that led me into this trap.
Such speculation would be intriguing if it weren’t so frustrating.
As with Bell, my skin prickles when I see Ravencourt in the mirror. Some part of me remembers my real face and is perplexed by this stranger staring back.
I hand the mirror to the valet.
“We need to go to the library,” I say.
“I know where it is, my lord,” he says. “Shall I fetch you a book?”
“I’m coming with you.”
The valet pauses, frowning. He speaks hesitatingly, his words testing the ground they’re tiptoeing across.
“It’s a fair walk, my lord. I fear you may find it…tiring.”
“I’ll manage. Besides, I need the exercise.”
Arguments queue behind his teeth, but he fetches my cane and an attaché case and leads me into a dark corridor, oil lamps spilling their warm light across the walls.
We walk slowly, the valet tossing news at my feet, but my mind is fixed on the ponderousness of this body I’m dragging forward. It’s as though some fiend has remade the house overnight, stretching the rooms and thickening the air. Wading into the sudden brightness of the entrance hall, I’m surprised to discover how steep the staircase now appears. The steps I sprinted down as Donald Davies would require climbing equipment to surmount this morning. Little wonder Lord and Lady Hardcastle lodged Ravencourt on the first floor. It would take a pulley, two strong men, and a day’s pay to hoist me into Bell’s room.
Requiring frequent rests at least allows me to observe my fellow guests as they make their way around the house, and it’s immediately evident that this is not a happy gathering. Whispered arguments spill out of nooks and crannies, raised voices moving hurriedly up the stairs only to be cut off by slamming doors. Husbands and wives goad each other, drinks gripped too tightly, faces flushed red with barely controlled rage. There’s a needle in every exchange, the air prickly and dangerous. Perhaps it’s nerves, or the hollow wisdom of foresight, but Blackheath seems fertile ground for tragedy.
My legs are trembling by the time we arrive at the library, my back aching with the effort of holding myself erect. Unfortunately, the room offers scant reward for such suffering. Dusty, overburdened bookshelves line the walls, a moldy red carpet smothering the floor. The bones of an old fire lie in the grate, opposite a small reading table with an uncomfortable wooden chair placed beside it.
My companion sums up his feelings in a single tut.
“One moment, my lord. I’ll fetch you a more comfortable chair from the drawing room,” he says.
I’ll need it. My left palm is blistered where it’s rubbed against the top of the cane, and my legs are wobbling beneath me. Sweat has soaked through my shirt, leaving my entire body itchy. Crossing the house has left me a wreck, and if I’m to reach the lake tonight before my rivals, I’m going to need a new host, preferably one capable of conquering a staircase.
Ravencourt’s valet returns with a wingback chair, placing it on the floor in front of me. Taking my arm, he lowers me into the green cushions.
“May I ask our purpose here, my lord?”
“If we’re very lucky, we’re meeting friends,” I reply, mopping my face with a handkerchief. “Do you have a piece of paper to hand?”
“Of course.”
He retrieves some foolscap and a fountain pen from his attaché case, standing ready to take dictation. I open my mouth to dismiss him, but one look at my sweaty, blistered hand dissuades me. In this instance, pride is a poor cousin to legibility.
After taking a minute to arrange the words in my head, I begin speaking aloud.
“It’s logical to believe that many of you have been here longer than I and possess knowledge of this house, our purpose here, and our captor, the Plague Doctor, that I do not.”
I pause, listening to the scratching of the pen.
“You have not sought me out, and I must assume there’s good reason for that, but I ask you now to meet me in the library at lunchtime and help me apprehend our captor. If you cannot, I ask you to share what you’ve learned by writing it on this paper. Whatever you know, no matter how trivial, may be of use in helping speed our escape. They say two heads are better than one, but I believe in this case our combined head may be sufficient.”
I wait for the scribbling to end, then look up at my companion’s face. It’s mystified, though also a touch amused. He’s a curious fellow, this one, not at all the straight edge he first appears.
“Should I post this, my lord?” he asks.
“No need,” I say, pointing toward the bookshelf. “Slide it within the pages of the first volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. They’ll know where to find it.”
He eyes me, then the note, before doing as I ask, the page slipping neatly inside. It seems a fitting home.
“And when should we expect a response, my lord?”
“Minutes, hours, I can’t be certain. We’ll have to keep checking back.”
“And until then?” he asks, wiping the dust from his hands with a pocket square.
“Talk to the servants. I need to know if any of the guests has a medieval plague doctor costume in their wardrobe.”
“My lord?”
“Porcelain mask, black greatcoat, that sort of thing,” I say. “In the meantime I’m going to have a nap.”
“Here, my lord?”
“Indeed.”
He watches me with a frown, trying to stitch together the scraps of information scattered before him.
“Should I light a fire?” he asks.
“No need, I’ll be quite comfortable,” I say.
“Very well,” he says, hovering.
I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, but it never arrives, and with a final look, he leaves the room, his confusion creeping out quietly behind him.
Placing my hands on my stomach, I close my eyes. Every time I’ve slept I’ve woken up in a different body, and while it’s risky sacrificing a host this way, I can’t see what more I can accomplish in Ravencourt. With any luck, when I awaken, my other selves will have made contact through the encyclopedia and I’ll be among them.
13
DAY TWO (CONTINUED)
Agony.
I scream, tasting blood.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” says a woman’s voice.
A pinch, a needle enters my neck. Warmth melts the pain.
It’s hard to breathe, impossible to move. I can’t open my eyes. I hear rolling wheels, hooves on cobbles, a presence by my side.
“I—” I start coughing.
“Shush, don’t try to talk. You’re back in the butler,” says the woman in an urgent whisper, laying a hand on my arm. “It’s been fifteen minutes since Gold attacked you, and you’re being taken by carriage to the gatehouse to rest.”
“Who are—?” I croak.
“A
friend. It doesn’t matter yet. Now, listen. I know you’re confused, tired, but this is important. There are rules to all of this. There’s no use trying to abandon your hosts the way you did. You get a full day in each of them, whether you want it or not. That’s from whenever they wake up until midnight. Understand?”
I’m dozing, struggling to stay awake.
“That’s why you’re back here,” she continues. “If one of your hosts falls asleep before midnight, you’ll jump back into the butler and carry on living this day. When the butler falls asleep, you’ll be returned. If the host slept past midnight, or if they died, you’ll jump into somebody new.”
I hear another voice. Rougher. From the front of the carriage.
“Gatehouse coming up.”
Her hand touches my forehead.
“Good luck to you.”
Too tired to hold on, I slip back into the dark.
14
DAY FOUR (CONTINUED)
A hand rocks my shoulder.
Blinking my eyes open, I find myself back in the library, back in Ravencourt. Relief washes over me. I’d thought nothing could be worse than this bulk, but I was wrong. The butler’s body felt like a bag of broken glass, and I’d live a lifetime as Ravencourt before I’d go back to that torment, though it doesn’t appear I have a choice. If the woman in the carriage is telling the truth, I’m destined to be pulled back there again.
Daniel Coleridge is looking down at me through a cloud of yellow smoke. A cigarette dangles from his lip, a drink in his hand. He’s wearing the same scuffed hunting clothes as when he talked with Sebastian Bell in the study. My eyes flick to the clock; it’s twenty before lunch. He must be on his way to that meeting now.
The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 9