He’s watching me, waiting for my reaction, and, looking at him now, I wonder how anybody ever mistook him for a servant. Though he’s dressed in a footman’s red and white livery, he possesses none of the traditional subservience. He’s tall and thin, languid in his movements, with dirty blond hair and a teardrop face, dark eyes above a smirk that would be charming if it weren’t so empty.
And then there’s that broken nose.
It’s purple and swollen, distorting his features. By the light of the fire, he looks like a creature dressing up as human, the mask slipping.
The footman holds up the knife to better inspect his work. Satisfied, he uses it to cut the sack from his waist, tossing it at my feet.
It hits the ground with a thud, the material soaked through with blood and tied shut with a drawstring. He wants me to open it, but I have no intention of indulging him.
Getting to my feet, I peel off my jacket and work loose the kinks in my neck.
In the back of my mind, I can hear Anna screaming at me, demanding I run. She’s right, I should be afraid, and in any other host, I would be. This is clearly a trap, but I’m tired of fearing this man.
It’s time to fight, if only to convince myself I can.
For a moment, we watch each other, the rain falling and the wind swirling. Unsurprisingly, it’s the footman who forces the issue, turning on his heel and sprinting into the darkness of the forest.
Bellowing like a lunatic, I charge after him.
Crossing into the forest, the trees huddle around me, branches scratch my face, the foliage thickening.
My legs are tiring, but I keep running until I realize I can’t hear him anymore.
Skidding to a halt, I spin on the spot, panting.
He’s on me in seconds, covering my mouth to stifle my scream as the blade enters my side and tears up into my ribcage, blood burbling into my throat. My knees buckle, but I’m prevented from falling by his strong arms around me. He’s breathing shallowly, eagerly. This isn’t the sound of tiredness, it’s excitement and anticipation.
A match flares, a tiny point of light held in front of my face.
He’s kneeling down directly opposite, his pitiless black eyes boring into me.
“Brave rabbit,” he says, slitting my throat.
32
DAY SIX
“Wake up! Wake up, Aiden!”
Somebody’s banging on my door.
“You have to wake up, Aiden. Aiden!”
Swallowing my tiredness, I blink at my surroundings. I’m in a chair, clammy with sweat, my clothes twisted tight around me. It’s nighttime, a candle guttering on a nearby table. There’s a tartan blanket over my lap, old man’s hands laid across a dog-eared book. Veins bulge in wrinkled flesh, crisscrossing dry ink stains and liver spots. I flex my fingers, stiff with age.
“Aiden, please!” says the voice in the corridor.
Rising from my chair, I move to the door, old aches stirring throughout my body like swarms of disturbed hornets. The hinges are loose, the bottom corner of the door scraping against the floor, revealing the lanky figure of Gregory Gold on the other side, slumped against the doorframe. He looks much as he will when he attacks the butler, though his dinner jacket’s torn and caked with mud, his breathing ragged.
He’s clutching the chess piece Anna gave me, and that, together with his use of my real name, is enough to convince me that he’s another of my hosts. Normally, I’d welcome such a meeting, but he’s in a frightful state, agitated and disheveled, a man dragged to hell and back.
Upon seeing me, he grips my shoulders. His dark eyes are bloodshot, flicking this way and that.
“Don’t get out of the carriage,” he says, spittle hanging off his lips. “Whatever you do, don’t get out of the carriage.”
His fear is a disease, the infection spreading through me.
“What happened to you?” I ask, a tremor in my voice.
“He…he never stops…”
“Never stops what?” I ask.
Gold’s shaking his head, pounding his temples. Tears stream down his cheeks, but I don’t know how to begin comforting him.
“Never stops what, Gold?” I ask again.
“Cutting,” he says, drawing up his sleeve to reveal the slices beneath. They look exactly like the knife wounds Bell woke up with that first morning.
“You won’t want to, you won’t, but you’ll give her up, you’ll tell, you’ll tell them everything, you won’t want to, but you’ll tell,” he babbles. “There’s two of them. Two. They look the same, but there’s two.”
His mind’s broken; I can see that now. There isn’t an ounce of sanity left to the man. I reach out a hand, hoping to draw him into the room, but he takes fright, backing away until he bumps into the far wall, only his voice remaining.
“Don’t get out of the carriage,” he hisses at me, wheeling away down the corridor.
I take a step out after him, but it’s too dark to see anything, and by the time I return with a candle, the corridor’s empty.
33
DAY TWO (CONTINUED)
The butler’s body, the butler’s pain, heavy with sedative. It’s like coming home.
I’m barely awake, and already slipping back toward sleep.
It’s getting dark. A man’s pacing back and forth across the tiny room, a shotgun in his arms.
It’s not the Plague Doctor. It’s not Gold.
He hears me stir and turns around. He’s in shade. I can’t make him out.
I open my mouth, but no words come out of it.
I close my eyes and slip away again.
34
DAY SIX (CONTINUED)
“Father.”
I’m startled to find the freckled face of a young man with red hair and blue eyes inches from my own. I’m old again, still sitting in my chair with the tartan blanket across my lap. The boy is bent at ninety degrees, hands clasped behind his back as though he doesn’t trust them in company.
My scowl shoves him a step backward.
“You asked me to wake you at nine fifteen,” he says apologetically.
He smells of scotch, tobacco, and fear. It wells up within him, staining the whites of his eyes yellow. They’re wary and hunted, like an animal waiting for the shot.
It’s light beyond the window, my candle long gone out, and the fire down to ash. My vague memory of being the butler proves I dozed off after Gold’s visit, but I don’t remember doing so. The horror of what Gold endured—what I must soon endure—kept me pacing into the early hours.
Don’t get out of the carriage.
It was a warning and a plea. He wants me to change the day, and while that’s exhilarating, it’s also disturbing. I know it can be done—I’ve seen it—but if I’m clever enough to change things, the footman is as well. For all I know, we’re running in circles undoing each other’s work. This is no longer simply about finding the right answer, it’s about holding onto it long enough to deliver it to the Plague Doctor.
I have to speak with the artist at the first opportunity.
I shift in my seat, tugging aside the tartan blanket, bringing the slightest flinch from the boy. He stiffens, looking at me sideways to see if I’ve noticed. Poor child; he’s had all the bravery beaten out of him and now he’s kicked for being a coward. My sympathy fares ill with my host, whose distaste for his son is absolute. He considers this boy’s meekness infuriating, his silence an affront. He’s a failure, an unforgivable failure.
My only one.
I shake my head, trying to free myself of this man’s regrets. The memories of Bell, Ravencourt, and Derby were objects in a fog, but the clutter of this current life is scattered around me. I cannot help but trip over it.
Despite the suggestion of infirmity given by the blanket, I rise with only a little stiffness, stretching to a respectable heig
ht. My son’s retreated to the corner of the room, draping himself in shadows. Though the distance is not great, it’s too far for my host, whose eyes falter at half the span. I search for spectacles, knowing it’s pointless. This man considers age a weakness, the result of a faltering will. There’ll be no spectacles, no walking stick, no aid of any sort. Whatever burdens are heaped upon me, they’re mine to endure. Alone.
I can feel my son weighing my mood, watching my face as one watches the clouds for an approaching storm.
“Spit it out,” I say gruffly, agitated by his reticence.
“I was hoping I might be excused this afternoon’s hunt,” he says.
The words are laid at my feet, two dead rabbits for a hungry wolf.
Even this simple request grates upon me. What young man doesn’t want to hunt? What young man creeps and crawls, tiptoeing around the edges of the world rather than trampling across the top of it? My urge is to refuse, to make him suffer for the temerity of being who he is, but I bite the desire back. We’ll both be happier beyond each other’s company.
“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?”
“Sunroom,” he says, scratching an armpit. “Herrington bet me I couldn’t finish the last of the port in under five minutes, and that’s all 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 sat 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 toward 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 lewd joke at the top of his voice, his friend trying unsuccessfully to quieten him.
They’re buffoons both, their personalities floating on a sea of arrogance that sets my teeth on edge. My host would happily stride off ahead, but I don’t 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 farther 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. Farther 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 toward 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 Petti
grew. “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 color 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 favor. 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 shotgun before he escaped,” says Herrington, who’s tipping a hip flask to his lips. “Wanted to know if there were any rumors 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. Rumor 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.”
The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 22
