Stable hands are guiding them on foot, their uniform flat caps, white shirts and loose grey trousers rendering them as indistinguishable from each other as the horses in their care.
I’m watching the hooves nervously. In a flash of memory, I recall being thrown from a horse as a boy, the beast’s hooves catching me in the chest, my bones cracking...
Don’t let Dance get a grip on you.
I tear myself free of my host’s memories, lowering the hand which had instinctively gone to the scar on my chest.
It’s getting worse.
Bell’s personality rarely surfaced at all, but between Derby’s lust and Dance’s manners and childhood traumas, it’s becoming difficult to keep a straight course.
A few horses in the middle of the mass are nipping at those to the side of them, a ripple of agitation passing through the muscular brown tide. It’s enough for me to take an ill-advised step off the road, straight into a pile of manure.
I’m flicking the filth free when one of the stable hands peels away from the pack.
‘Something I can help you with, Mr Dance?’ he says, tipping his cap at me.
‘You know me?’ I say, surprised by this recognition.
‘Sorry, sir, name’s Oswald, sir, I saddled the stallion you rode yesterday. Fine thing, sir, seeing a gentleman on a horse. Not many know how to ride that way any more.’
He smiles, showing off two rows of gappy teeth stained brown with tobacco.
‘Of course, of course,’ I say, the passing horses nudging him in the back. ‘Actually, Oswald, I was looking for Lady Hardcastle. She was supposed to be meeting Alf Miller, the stablemaster.’
‘Not sure ’bout her ladyship, sir, but you’ve just missed Alf. Left with somebody about ten minutes gone. Heading to the lake, best I could tell, took the path alongside the paddock. It’s on your right as you pass under the arch, sir, you can probably still catch them if you hurry.’
‘Thank you, Oswald.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Tipping his cap again, he falls in with the pack.
Keeping to the edge of the road, I carry on towards the stables, the loose cobbles slowing me down considerably. In my other hosts, I simply leapt aside when one slid beneath me. Dance’s old legs aren’t nimble enough for that, and every time one wobbles under my weight, it twists my ankles and knees, threating to tip me over.
Vexed, I pass beneath the arch to find oats, hay and smashed fruit littering the courtyard, a boy doing his best to sweep the debris into the corners. He’d probably have more luck if he wasn’t half the size of the brush. He peeks at me shyly as I pass, trying to doff his cap but only succeeding in losing it to the wind. The last I see of him, he’s chasing it across the yard as though all his dreams were stuffed inside.
The path nestled alongside the paddock is little more than a muddy trail rotten with puddles, and my trousers are already filthy by the time I’m halfway along. Twigs are cracking, rain dripping from the plants. I have the sense of being watched, and though there’s nothing to suggest it’s anything more than nerves, I swear I can feel a presence among the trees, a pair of eyes dogging my steps. I can only hope I’m mistaken, because if the footman does spring onto the path, I’m too weak to fight and too slow to run. The rest of my life will be precisely how long it takes him to pick a way of killing me.
Seeing no sign of the stablemaster or Lady Hardcastle, I sacrifice my deportment completely, splattering mud up my back as I break into a worried trot.
The trail soon veers away from the paddock and into the forest, that sense of being watched only growing as I move further away from the stables. Brambles snatch at my clothes as I push through, until finally I hear the murmur of approaching voices and the lapping of water against the shore. Relief overwhelms me, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath this entire time. We’re face to face in two steps, though it’s not Lady Hardcastle I find accompanying the stablemaster, but rather Cunningham, Ravencourt’s valet. He’s wearing a thick coat and the long purple scarf he’ll struggle to tug loose when he interrupts Ravencourt speaking with Daniel.
The banker must be asleep in the library. Their alarm at bumping into me suggests they were discussing far more than mere gossip.
It’s Cunningham who recovers first, smiling amiably.
‘Mr Dance, what a pleasant surprise,’ he says. ‘What brings you out on this foul morning?’
‘I was looking for Helena Hardcastle,’ I say, glancing from Cunningham to the stablemaster. ‘I was under the impression she was taking a walk with Mr Miller here.’
‘No, sir,’ says Miller, kneading his cap between his hands. ‘Supposed to be meeting at my cottage, sir. I’m on my way there now.’
‘We three find ourselves in the same boat then,’ says Cunningham. ‘I was also hoping to catch her. Perhaps we can go along together. My business shouldn’t take very long, but I’ll be happy to stand in line, as it were.’
‘And what is your business?’ I ask, as we begin walking back towards the stables. ‘It was my understanding you met with Lady Hardcastle before breakfast.’
The directness of my question momentarily unsettles his good cheer, a flash of annoyance passing across his face.
‘A few matters for Lord Hardcastle,’ he says. ‘You know how these things are. One mess soon leads to another.’
‘But you have seen the lady of the house today?’ I say.
‘Indeed, first thing.’
‘How did she seem?’
He shrugs, frowning at me. ‘I couldn’t say. Our talk was very brief. May I ask where these questions are leading, Mr Dance? I rather feel like I’m facing you in court.’
‘Nobody else has seen Lady Hardcastle today. That strikes me as strange.’
‘Perhaps she’s wary of being pestered with questions,’ he says, flaring.
We arrive at the stablemaster’s cottage in an irritated mood, Mr Miller writhing in discomfort as he invites us inside. It’s as neat and orderly as the last time I was here, although much too small for three men and their secrets.
I take the chair by the table, while Cunningham inspects the bookcase, and the stablemaster frets, doing his best to tidy an already tidy cottage.
We wait for ten minutes, but Lady Hardcastle never arrives.
It’s Cunningham who breaks the silence.
‘Well, it seems the lady has other plans,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘I’d better get off, I’m expected in the library. Good morning to you, Mr Dance, Mr Miller,’ he says, inclining his head before opening the door and departing.
Miller looks up at me nervously.
‘What about you, Mr Dance?’ he says. ‘Will you be waiting longer?’
I ignore this, and join him by the fireplace.
‘What were you speaking with Cunningham about?’ I ask.
He stares at the window, as though his answers are coming by messenger. I snap my fingers in front of his face, drawing his watery eyes towards me.
‘At this moment, I’m simply curious, Mr Miller,’ I say in a low voice dripping with unpleasant possibilities. ‘In a minute or so, I’ll be annoyed. Tell me what you were speaking about.’
‘He wanted somebody to show him around,’ he says, jutting out his lower lip, revealing the pink flesh within. ‘Wanted to see the lake, he did.’
Whatever Miller’s skills in this world, lying is not one of them. His elderly face is a mass of wrinkles and overhanging flesh, more than enough material for his emotions to build a stage from. Every frown is a tragedy, every smile a farce. A lie, sitting as it does somewhere between both, is enough to collapse the entire performance.
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I lower my face to his, watching as his eyes flee mine.
‘Charles Cunningham grew up on this estate, Mr Miller, as well you know. He has no need of a tour guide. Now, what were you discussing?’
He shakes his head. ‘I promised—’
‘I can make promises too, Miller, but you won’t enjoy mi
ne.’
My fingers press into his collarbone, tight enough to make him wince.
‘He was asking about the murdered boy,’ he says reluctantly.
‘Thomas Hardcastle?’
‘No, sir, the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘Keith Parker, the stable boy.’
‘What stable boy? What are you talking about, man?’
‘Nobody remembers him, sir, not important enough,’ he says, gritting his teeth. ‘One of mine, he was. Lovely boy, about fourteen. Went missing a week or so before Master Thomas died. Couple of peelers came up to take a look in the forest, but they couldn’t find his body, so they said he ran away. I tell you, sir, he never did. Loved his mam, loved his job. He wouldn’t have done it. I said as much at the time, but nobody listened.’
‘Did they ever find him?’
‘No, sir, never did.’
‘And that’s what you told Cunningham?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Is that all you told him?’
His eyes shift left and right.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ I say.
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Miller,’ I say coldly, my hackles rising. Dance hates people who try to deceive him, considering it a suggestion of gullibility, of stupidity. To even attempt it, liars must believe themselves to be cleverer than the person they’re lying to, an assumption he finds grotesquely insulting.
‘I’m not lying, sir,’ protests the poor stablemaster, a vein bulging on his forehead.
‘You are! Tell me what you know!’ I demand.
‘I can’t.’
‘You will, or I’ll ruin you, Mr Miller,’ I say, giving my host free rein. ‘I’ll take everything you have, every stitch of clothing and every penny you’ve squirrelled away.’
Dance’s words pour out of my mouth, each one dripping with poison. This is how he runs his law practice, bludgeoning his opponents with threats and intimidation. In his own way, Dance may be just as vile as Derby.
‘I’ll dig up every—’
‘The story’s a lie,’ Miller blurts out.
His face is ashen, his eyes haunted.
‘What does that mean? Out with it!’ I say.
‘They say Charlie Carver killed Master Thomas, sir.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, he couldn’t have, sir. Charlie and me were friendly like. Charlie had an argument with Lord Hardcastle that morning, been fired he had, so he decided to take severance.’
‘Severance?’
‘A few bottles of brandy, sir, right out of Lord Hardcastle’s study. Just walked in and took them.’
‘So he stole a few bottles of brandy,’ I say. ‘How does that prove his innocence?’
‘He came to fetch me after I sent Miss Evelyn out riding on her pony. Wanted a last drink with a friend, he said. Couldn’t say no, could I? We drank those bottles between us, me and Charlie, but around half an hour before the murder, he said I had to leave.’
‘Leave, why?’
‘He said somebody was coming to see him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, sir, he never said. He just—’
He falters, feeling along the edge of the answer for the crack he’s certain he’s about to fall through.
‘What?’ I demand.
The poor fool’s wringing his hands together, rucking up the rug with the ball of his left foot.
‘He said everything was arranged, sir, said they were going to help him get a good position somewhere else. I thought maybe...’
‘Yes.’
‘The way he was talking, sir... I thought...’
‘Spit it out for God’s sake, Miller.’
‘Lady Hardcastle, sir,’ he says, meeting my gaze for the first time. ‘I thought maybe he was meeting Lady Helena Hardcastle. They’d always been friendly like.’
My hand drops from his shoulder.
‘But you didn’t see her arrive?’
‘I...’
‘You didn’t leave, did you?’ I say, catching the guilt on his face. ‘You wanted to see who was coming, so you hid somewhere nearby.’
‘For a minute, sir, just to see, to make sure he was all right.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anybody this?’ I say, frowning at him.
‘I was told not to, sir.’
‘By whom?’
He looks up at me, chewing the silence into a desperate plea.
‘By whom, dammit?’ I persist.
‘Well, Lady Hardcastle, sir. That’s what made me... well, she wouldn’t have let Charlie kill her son, would she? And if he had, she wouldn’t have told me to keep it quiet. Doesn’t make no sense, does it? He has to be innocent.’
‘And you kept this secret all these years?’
‘I was afraid, sir. Terrible afraid, sir.’
‘Of Helena Hardcastle?’
‘Of the knife, sir. The one used to kill Thomas. They found it in Carver’s cabin, hidden under the floorboards. That’s what did for him in the end, sir.’
‘Why would you be afraid of the knife, Miller?’
‘Because it was mine, sir. Horseshoe knife, it was. Went missing from my cottage a couple of days before the murder. That and a nice blanket right off my bed. I thought they might, well, blame me, sir. Like I was in on it with Carver, sir.’
The next few minutes pass in a blur, my thoughts far afield. I’m vaguely aware of promising to keep Miller’s secrets, just as I’m vaguely aware of leaving the cottage, the rain soaking me as I head back towards the house.
Michael Hardcastle told me somebody had been with Charlie Carver the morning of Thomas’s death, somebody Stanwin had clipped with a shotgun before they escaped. Could that person have been Lady Hardcastle? If so, her injuries would have needed tending quietly.
Doctor Dickie?
The Hardcastles were hosting a party the weekend Thomas was murdered, and by Evelyn’s account the same guests were invited back for this ball. Dickie’s in the house today, so it’s likely he was here nineteen years ago.
He won’t talk, he’s loyal as a dog.
‘He’s in the drug-peddling business with Bell,’ I say, remembering the marked-up Bible I found in his room when I was Derby. ‘That will be enough leverage to force the truth from him.’
My excitement’s building. If Dickie confirms that Lady Hardcastle was shot in the shoulder, she’d have to be a suspect in Thomas’s death. But why on earth would she take her own son’s life, or allow Carver – a man Lord Hardcastle claimed she loved – to take the blame on her behalf?
This is the closest Dance gets to glee, the old lawyer having spent his life following the facts like a hunting dog with the scent of blood in its nose, and it’s not until Blackheath lifts itself off the horizon that I finally awake to my surroundings. At this distance, with these weak eyes, the house is smudged, the cracks obscured, and one sees Blackheath as it must formerly have been, back when a young Millicent Derby summered here with Ravencourt and the Hardcastles, when children played in the forest without fear, their parents enjoying parties and music, laughter and singing.
How glorious it must have been.
One could understand why Helena Hardcastle might yearn for those days again, and might even attempt to restore them by throwing another party. One could understand, but only a fool would accept that as the reason any of this is happening.
Blackheath cannot be restored. The murder of Thomas Hardcastle hollowed it out forever, making it fit only for ruin, and yet, despite that, she’s invited the same guests to the same party, nineteen years later to the day. The past has been dug up and dressed up, but to what purpose?
If Miller’s right and Charlie Carver didn’t kill Thomas Hardcastle, chances are it was Helena Hardcastle, the spinner of this dreadful web we’re all tangled in, and the woman I’m increasingly convinced is at the centre of it.
Chances are she’s planning to kill Evelyn tonight, and I still don’t have
any idea how to find her, let alone stop her.
38
A few gentlemen are smoking outside Blackheath, sharing stories of last night’s debauchery. Their cheerful greetings follow me up the steps, but I pass by without comment. My legs are aching, my lower back demanding a soak in the bathtub, but I don’t have time. The hunt begins in half an hour and I can’t miss it. I have too many questions and most of the answers will be carrying shotguns.
Taking a decanter of Scotch from the drawing room, I retire to my room, knocking back a couple of stiff drinks to smother the pain. I can feel Dance’s objection, his distaste not only at my acknowledgement of the discomfort, but my need to dim it. My host despises what’s happening to him, seeing age as a malignancy, a consumption and an erosion.
Stripping out of my muddy clothes, I take myself over to the mirror, realising I still have no idea what Dance looks like. Putting on a new body every day has already become commonplace, and it’s only the hope of catching some glimpse of the real Aiden Bishop that compels me to keep looking.
Dance is in his late seventies, as withered and grey on the outside as the inside. Almost bald, his face is a river of wrinkles running off his skull, pinned in place only by a large roman nose. Either side of that are a small grey moustache and dark, lifeless eyes suggesting nothing of the man within, except, perhaps, that there may not be a man within. Anonymity seems to be a compulsion with Dance, whose clothes – though good quality – come in shades of grey, with only the handkerchiefs and bow ties offering anything in the way of colour. Even then, the choice is either dark red or dark blue, giving the impression of a man camouflaged within his own life.
His hunting tweeds are a little tight around the middle, but they’ll suffice, and with another glass of Scotch warming my throat, I cross the corridor to Doctor Dickie’s bedroom, rapping on the door.
Steps approach from the other side, Dickie opening it wide. He’s dressed for the hunt.
‘I don’t work this much at my surgery,’ he grumbles. ‘I should warn you, I’ve already tended knife wounds, memory loss and a severe beating this morning, so whatever your ailment, it needs to be interesting. And above the waist, preferably.’
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 25
