“Anna?” he asks in a hushed voice.
“Yes. Anna. She was being chased.”
“By whom?”
“Some figure in black. We must involve the police!”
“Shortly, shortly. Let’s go up to your room first,” he soothes, ushering me toward the staircase.
I don’t know if it’s the heat of the house, or the relief of finding a friendly face, but I’m beginning to feel faint, and I have to use the banister to keep from stumbling as we climb the steps.
A grandfather clock greets us at the top, its mechanism rusting, seconds turned to dust on its pendulum. It’s later than I thought, almost 10:30 a.m.
Passages either side of us lead off into opposite wings of the house, although the one into the east wing is blocked by a velvet curtain that’s been hastily nailed to the ceiling, a small sign pinned to the material proclaiming the area under decoration.
Impatient to unburden myself of the morning’s trauma, I try again to raise the issue of Anna, but my Samaritan silences me with a conspiratorial shake of the head.
“These damnable servants will smear your words up and down the house in half a minute,” he says, his voice low enough to scoop off the floor. “Best we talk in private.”
He’s away from me in two strides, but I can barely walk in a straight line, let alone keep pace.
“My dear man, you look dreadful,” he says, noticing that I’ve fallen behind.
Supporting my arm, he guides me along the passage, his hand at my back, fingers pressed against my spine. Though a simple gesture, I can feel his urgency as he leads me along a gloomy corridor with bedrooms either side, maids dusting inside. The walls must have been recently repainted for the fumes are making my eyes water, further evidence of a hurried restoration gathering as we progress along the passage. Mismatched stain is splashed across the floorboards, rugs laid down to try and muffle creaking joints. Wingback chairs have been arranged to hide the cracks in the walls, while paintings and porcelain vases attempt to lure the eye from crumbling cornices. Given the extent of the decay, such concealment seems a futile gesture. They’ve carpeted a ruin.
“Ah, this is your bedroom, isn’t it?” says my companion, opening a door near the end of the corridor.
Cold air slaps me in the face, reviving me a little, but he walks ahead to close the raised window it’s pouring through. Following behind, I enter a pleasant room with a four-poster bed set in the middle of the floor, its regal bearing only slightly let down by the sagging canopy and threadbare curtains, their embroidered birds flying apart at the seams. A folding screen has been pulled across the left side of the room, an iron bathtub visible through the gaps between the panels. Other than that, the furniture’s sparse—just a nightstand and a large wardrobe near the window, both of them splintered and faded. About the only personal item I can see is a King James Bible on the nightstand, its cover worn through and pages dog-eared.
As my Samaritan wrestles with the stiff window, I come to stand beside him, the view momentarily driving all else from my mind. Dense forest surrounds us, its green canopy unbroken by either a village or road. Without that compass, without a murderer’s kindness, I’d never have found this place, and yet I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve been lured into a trap. After all, why kill Anna and spare me, if there wasn’t some grander plan behind it? What does this devil want from me that he couldn’t take in the forest?
Slamming the window shut, my companion gestures to an armchair next to a subdued fire, and passing me a crisp white towel from the cupboard, he sits down on the edge of the bed, tossing one leg across the other.
“Start at the beginning, old love,” he says.
“There isn’t time,” I say, gripping the arm of the chair. “I’ll answer all your questions in due course, but we must first call for the police and search those woods! There’s a madman loose.”
His eyes flicker across me, as though the truth of the matter is to be found in the folds of my soiled clothing.
“I’m afraid we can’t call anybody. There’s no line up here,” he says, rubbing his neck. “But we can search the woods and send a servant to the village, should we find anything. How long will it take you to change? You’ll need to show us where it happened.”
“Well.” I’m wringing the towel in my hands. “It’s difficult. I was disoriented.”
“Descriptions, then,” he says, hitching up a trouser leg, exposing the gray sock at his ankle. “What did the murderer look like?”
“I never saw his face. He was wearing a heavy black coat.”
“And this Anna?”
“She was also wearing black,” I say, heat rising into my cheeks as I realize this is the extent of my information. “I… Well, I only know her name.”
“Forgive me, Sebastian. I assumed she was a friend of yours.”
“No…” I stammer. “I mean, perhaps. I can’t be certain.”
Hands dangling between his knees, my Samaritan leans forward with a confused smile. “I’m missing something, I think. How can you know her name, but not be certain—”
“My memory is lost, damn it,” I interrupt, the confession thudding on the floor between us. “I can’t remember my own name, let alone those of my friends.”
Skepticism billows up behind his eyes. I can’t blame him; even to my ears, this all sounds absurd.
“My memory has no bearing on what I witnessed,” I insist, clutching at the tatters of my credibility. “I saw a woman being chased. She screamed and was silenced by a gunshot. We have to search those woods!”
“I see.” He pauses, brushing some lint from a trouser leg. His next words are offerings, carefully chosen and even more carefully placed before me.
“Is there a chance the two people you saw were lovers? Playing a game in the woods, perhaps? The sound might have been a branch cracking, even a starting pistol.”
“No, no. She called for help; she was afraid,” I say, my agitation sending me leaping from the chair, the dirty towel thrown on the floor.
“Of course, of course,” he says reassuringly, watching me pace. “I do believe you, my dear fellow, but the police are so precise about these things and they do delight in making their betters look foolish.”
I stare at him helplessly, drowning in a sea of platitudes.
“Her killer gave me this,” I say, suddenly remembering the compass, which I tug from my pocket. It’s smeared with mud, forcing me to wipe it clean with my sleeve. “There are letters on the back,” I say, pointing a trembling finger toward them.
He views the compass through narrowed eyes, turning it over in a methodical fashion.
“SB,” he says slowly, looking up at me.
“Yes!”
“Sebastian Bell.” He pauses, weighing my confusion. “That’s your name, Sebastian. These are your initials. This is your compass.”
My mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out.
“I must have lost it,” I say eventually. “Perhaps the killer picked it up.”
“Perhaps.” He nods.
It’s his kindness that knocks the wind out of me. He thinks I’m half mad, a drunken fool who spent the night in the forest and came back raving. Yet instead of being angry, he pities me. That’s the worst part. Anger’s solid; it has weight. You can beat your fists against it. Pity’s a fog to become lost within.
I drop into the chair, my head cradled in my hands. There’s a killer on the loose, and I have no way of convincing him of the danger.
A killer who showed you the way home?
“I know what I saw,” I say.
You don’t even know who you are.
“I’m sure you do,” says my companion, mistaking the nature of my protest.
I stare at nothing, thinking only of a woman called Anna lying dead in the forest.
“Look, you rest here,”
he says, standing up. “I’ll ask around the house, see if anybody’s missing. Maybe that will turn something up.”
His tone is conciliatory but matter of fact. Kind as he’s been to me, I cannot trust his doubt will get anything done. Once that door closes behind him, he’ll scatter a few halfhearted questions among the staff, while Anna lays abandoned.
“I saw a woman murdered,” I say, getting to my feet wearily. “A woman I should have helped, and if I have to search every inch of those woods to prove it, I’ll do so.”
He holds my gaze a second, his skepticism faltering in the face of my certainty.
“Where will you start?” he asks. “There are thousands of acres of forest out there, and for all your good intentions, you could barely make it up the stairs. Whoever this Anna is, she’s already dead and her murderer’s fled. Give me an hour to gather a search party and ask my questions. Somebody in this house must know who she is and where she went. We’ll find her, I promise, but we have to do it the right way.”
He squeezes my shoulder.
“Can you do as I ask? One hour, please.”
Objections choke me, but he’s right. I need to rest, to recover my strength, and as guilty as I feel about Anna’s death, I do not want to stalk into that forest alone. I barely made it out of there the first time.
I submit with a meek nod of the head.
“Thank you, Sebastian,” he says. “A bath’s been run. Why don’t you clean yourself up? I’ll send for the doctor and ask my valet to lay out some clothes for you. Rest a little. We’ll meet in the drawing room at lunchtime.”
I should ask after this place before he leaves, my purpose here, but I’m impatient for him to start asking his questions so we can get on with our search. Only one question seems important now, and he’s already opened the door by the time I find the words to ask it.
“Do I have any family in the house?” I ask. “Anybody who might be worried about me?”
He glances at me over his shoulder, wary with sympathy.
“You’re a bachelor, old man. No family to speak of beyond a dotty aunt somewhere with a hand on your purse strings. You have friends, of course, myself among them, but whoever this Anna is, you’ve never mentioned her to me. Truth be told, until today, I’ve never even heard you say the name.”
Embarrassed, he turns his back on my disappointment and disappears into the cold corridor, the fire flickering uncertainly as the door closes behind him.
3
I’m out of my chair before the draft fades, pulling open the drawers in my nightstand, searching for some mention of Anna among my possessions, anything to prove that she isn’t the product of a lurching mind. Unfortunately, the bedroom is proving remarkably tight-lipped. Aside from a pocketbook containing a few pounds, the only other personal item I come across is a gold-embossed invitation, a guest list on the front and a message on the back, written in an elegant hand.
Lord and Lady Hardcastle request the pleasure of your company at a masquerade ball celebrating the return of their daughter, Evelyn, from Paris. Celebrations will take place at Blackheath House over the second weekend of September. Owing to Blackheath’s isolation, transport to the house will be arranged for all of our guests from the nearby village of Abberly.
The invitation is addressed to Doctor Sebastian Bell, a name it takes me a few moments to recognize as my own. My Samaritan mentioned it earlier, but seeing it written down, along with my profession, is an altogether more unsettling affair. I don’t feel like a Sebastian, let alone a doctor.
A wry smile touches my lips.
I wonder how many of my patients will stay loyal when I approach them with my stethoscope on upside down.
Tossing the invitation back into the drawer, I turn my attention to the Bible on the nightstand, flipping through its well-thumbed pages. Paragraphs are underlined, random words circled in red ink, though for the life of me I can’t make sense of their significance. I’d been hoping to find an inscription or a letter concealed inside, but the Bible’s empty of wisdom. Clutching it in both hands, I make a clumsy attempt at prayer, hoping to rekindle whatever faith I once possessed, but the entire endeavor feels like foolishness. My religion has abandoned me along with everything else.
The cupboard is next, and though the pockets of my clothes turn up nothing, I discover a steamer trunk buried beneath a pile of blankets. It’s a beautiful old thing, the battered leather wrapped in tarnished iron bands, a heavy clasp protecting the contents from prying eyes. A London address—my address presumably—is written in the slip, though it stirs no recollection.
Taking off my jacket, I heave the trunk onto the bare floorboards, the contents clinking with every jolt. A murmur of excitement escapes me as I press the button on the clasp, transforming into a groan when I discover the damned thing is locked. I tug at the lid, once, twice, but it’s unyielding. I search the open drawers and sideboard again, even dropping to my stomach to look under the bed, but there’s nothing under there but rat poison pellets and dust.
The key isn’t anywhere to be found.
The only place I haven’t searched is the area around the bathtub, and I round the folding screen like a man possessed, nearly leaping out of my skin when I discover a wild-eyed creature lurking on the other side.
It’s a mirror.
The wild-eyed creature looks as abashed as I at this revelation.
Taking a tentative step forward, I examine myself for the first time, disappointment swelling within me. Only now, staring at this shivering, frightened fellow, do I realize that I had expectations of myself. Taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, I don’t know, but not this bland figure in the glass. Brown hair, brown eyes, and no chin to speak of. I’m any face in a crowd; just the Lord’s way of filling in the gaps.
Quickly tiring of my reflection, I continue searching for the key to my trunk, but aside from some toiletries and a jug of water, there’s nothing back here. Whoever I used to be, it appears I tidied myself away before disappearing. I’m on the verge of howling in frustration when I’m interrupted by a knock on the door, an entire personality conveying itself in five hearty raps.
“Sebastian, are you there?” says a gruff voice. “My name’s Richard Acker, I’m a doctor. I was asked to look in on you.”
I open the door to find a huge gray mustache on the other side. It’s a remarkable sight, the tips curling off the edge of the face they’re theoretically attached to. The man behind it is in his sixties, perfectly bald, with a bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes. He smells of brandy, but cheerfully so, as though every drop went down smiling.
“Lord, you look dreadful,” he says. “And that’s my professional opinion.”
Taking advantage of my confusion, he strolls past me, tossing his black medical case onto the bed and having a good look around the room, paying particular attention to my trunk.
“Used to have one of these myself,” he says, running an affectionate hand across the lid. “Lavolaille, isn’t it? Took me to the Orient and back when I was in the army. They say you shouldn’t trust a Frenchman, but I couldn’t do without their luggage.”
He gives it an experimental kick, wincing as his foot bounces off the obstinate leather.
“You must have bricks in there,” he says, cocking his head at me expectantly, as though there’s some sensible response to such a statement.
“It’s locked,” I stammer.
“Can’t find the key, hmmm?”
“I…no. Doctor Acker, I—”
“Call me Dickie, everybody else does,” he says briskly, going to the window to peer outside. “I’ve never enjoyed the name truth be told, but I can’t seem to shake it. Daniel says you’ve suffered a misfortune.”
“Daniel?” I ask, just about holding onto the back of the conversation as it streaks away from me.
“Coleridge. Chap who found you this morning.”
“Right, yes.”
Doctor Dickie beams at my bafflement.
“Memory loss, is it? Well, not to worry, I saw a few of these cases in the war, and everything came back after a day or so, whether the patient wanted it to or not.”
He shoos me toward the trunk, making me sit down on top of it. Tilting my head forward, he examines my skull with a butcher’s tenderness, chuckling as I wince.
“Oh, yes, you’ve a nice bump back here.” He pauses, considering it. “Probably banged your head at some point last night. I’d imagine that’s when it all spilled out, so to speak. Any other symptoms? Headaches, nausea, that sort of thing?”
“There’s a voice,” I say, a little embarrassed by the admission.
“A voice?”
“In my head. I think it’s my voice, only, well, it’s very certain about things.”
“I see,” he says thoughtfully. “And this…voice. What does it say?”
“It gives me advice. Sometimes it comments on what I’m doing.”
Dickie’s pacing behind me, tugging his mustache.
“This advice, is it… How should I say? All aboveboard? Nothing violent, nothing perverse?”
“Absolutely not,” I say, riled by the inference.
“And are you hearing it now?”
“No.”
“Trauma,” he says abruptly, raising a finger in the air. “That’s what it’ll be. Very common, in fact. Somebody bangs their head and all manner of strange things start going on. They see smells, taste sounds, hear voices. Always passes in a day or two, month at the outside.”
“A month!” I say, spinning on the trunk to look at him. “How am I going to manage like this for a month? Perhaps I should visit a hospital?”
“God no, terrible things, hospitals,” he says, aghast. “Sickness and death swept into corners, diseases curled up in the beds with the patients. Take my advice and go for a stroll, root through your belongings, talk to some friends. I saw you and Michael Hardcastle sharing a bottle at dinner last night, several bottles actually. Quite an evening by all accounts. He should be able to help, and mark my words, once your memories return, that voice will be no more.”
The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 2
