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 mine.”
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 stable master, a vein bulging on his forehead.
“You are! Tell me what you know!” I demand.
“I can’t.”
“You will, or I’ll destroy 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 squirreled 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 toward 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 center 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 acknowledgment 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, realizing 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 gray 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 gray mustache 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 gray, with only the handkerchiefs and bow ties offering anything in the way of color. 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.”
“You peddle drugs through Sebastian Bell,” I say bluntly, watching the smile vanish from his face. “He sells them, you supply them.”
White as a sheet, he’s forced to steady himself against the doorframe.
Seeing weakness, I press my advantage. “Ted Stanwin would pay handsomely for this information, but I don’t need Stanwin. I need to know if you treated Helena Hardcastle, or anybody else, for a gunshot wound the day Thomas Hardcastle was murdered?”
“The police asked me the same question at the time, and I answered honestly,” he rasps, loosening his collar. “No, I did not.”
Scowling, I turn away from him. “I’m going to Stanwin,” I say.
“Damn it, man. I’m telling the truth,” he says, catching my arm.
We look each other in the eyes. His are old and dim and lit by fear. Whatever he finds in mine causes him to release me immediately.
“Helena Hardcastle loves her children more than life itself, and she loved Thomas the most,” he insists. “She couldn’t have harmed him; she wouldn’t have been able. I swear to you, on my honor as a gentleman, nobody came to me that day with an injury, and I don’t have the first clue who Stanwin shot.”
I hold his pleading gaze for a second, searching for some flicker of deceit, but he’s telling the truth. I’m certain of it.
Deflated, I let the doctor go and return to the entrance hall where the rest of the gentlemen are gathering, smoking and chatting, impatient for the hunt to begin. I was certain Dickie would confirm Helena’s involvement and, in so doing, give me a starting point for Evelyn’s death.
I need to get a better picture of what happened to Thomas, and I know precisely the man to ask.
Searching for Ted Stanwin, I step into the drawing room, where I find Philip Sutcliffe in green hunting tweeds, attacking the keys of the pianoforte with a great deal of gusto and very little skill, the almost-music transporting me back to my first morning in the house—a memory currently being lived by Sebastian Bell, who’s standing alone and uncomfortable in the far corner, nursing a drink he doesn’t even know the name of. My pity for him is balanced by Dance’s irritation, the old lawyer having little patience for ignorance of any sort. Given the chance, he’d tell Bell everything, consequences be damned, and I must admit the idea is tempting.
Why shouldn’t Bell know that he saw a maid called Madeline Aubert in the forest this morning, and not Anna? And that neither of them died, so his guilt is unnecessary? I could explain the loop, and how Evelyn’s murder is the key to escape, preventing him from wasting his day as Donald Davies by trying to flee. Cunningham is Charlie Carver’s son, I’d say, and it looks like he’s trying to prove Carver didn’t kill Thomas Hardcastle. When the time comes, this is the information you’ll blackmail Cunningham with, because Ravencourt abhors scandal and would almost certainly get rid of his valet if he found out. I’d tell him to find the mysterious Felicity Maddox, and, most importantly, Helena Hardcastle, because every road leads back to the missing lady of the house.
It wouldn’t work.
“I know,” I mutter ruefully.
Bell’s first thought would be that I’d escaped from the madhouse, and when he finally realized it was all true, his investigation would change the day completely. Much as I want to help him, I’m too close to my answer to risk unraveling this loop.
Bell will have to do this alone.
An arm catches my elbow, Christopher Pettigrew appearing beside me with a plate in his hand. I’ve never been this near to him before, and if it weren’t for Dance’s impeccable manners, my disgust would be plain on my face. Up close, he looks like something recently dug up.
“Soon be rid of him,” says Pettigrew, nodding over my shoulder toward Ted Stanwin, who’s picking at the cold cuts on the dining table, while watching his fellow guests through narrowed eyes. His disgust is obvious.
Until this moment, I’d always taken him for a simple bully, but it’s more than that I see now. His business is blackmail, which means he knows every secret and hidden shame, every possible scandal and perversity lapping around this house. Worse, he knows who got away with what. He despises everybody in Blackheath, including himself for protecting their secrets, so he spends every day picking fights to make himself feel better.
Somebody pushes by me, a confused Charles Cunningham arriving from the library with Ravencourt’s letter in his hand, while the maid Lucy Harper clears away plates, oblivious to the events brewing around her. With a pang, I realize that she looks a little like my dead wife Rebecca. In her younger days, of course. There’s a similarity of movement, a gentleness of action, as though…
Rebecca wasn’t your wife.
“Damn it, Dance,” I say, shaking myself free of him.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that, old man,” says Pettigrew, frowning at me.
Flushing with embarrassment, I open my mouth to respond, but I’m distracted by poor Lucy Harper as she tries to squeeze past Stanwin to fetch an empty plate. She’s prettier than I recall, freckled and blue-eyed, trying to tuck her wild red hair back under her cap.
“’Scuse me, Ted,” she says.
“
Ted?” he says angrily, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard enough to make her wince. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Lucy? It’s Mr. Stanwin to you. I’m not downstairs with the rats anymore.”
Shocked and afraid, she searches our faces for help.
Unlike Sebastian Bell, Dance is a keen observer of human nature, and watching this scene play out before me, I’m struck by something queer. When I first witnessed this moment, I’d taken note only of Lucy’s fear at being manhandled, but she isn’t merely afraid, she’s surprised. Upset even. And rather oddly, so is Stanwin.
“Let her go, Ted,” says Daniel Coleridge from the doorway.
The rest of the confrontation goes as I remember, Stanwin retreating, Daniel collecting Bell and taking him through into the study to meet Michael, offering me a small nod of acknowledgement along the way.
“Shall we go?” asks Pettigrew. “I suspect our entertainment is at an end.”
I’m tempted to search for Stanwin, but I have no desire to climb those stairs and make my way into the east wing when I know for certain he’s coming on this hunt. Better to wait for him here, I decide.
Shouldering our way through the scandalized throng, we pass through the entrance hall and out onto the driveway to find Sutcliffe already waiting, along with Herrington and a couple of other chaps I don’t recognize. Dark clouds are clambering atop one another, pregnant with a storm I’ve now seen batter Blackheath half a dozen times. The hunters are huddled in a pack, holding onto their hats and jackets as the wind tugs at them with a thousand thieving hands. Only the dogs seem eager, straining at their leads and barking into the gloom. It’s going to be a miserable afternoon, and the knowledge that I’m going to be striding into it only makes things worse.
“What ho?” says Sutcliffe upon our approach, the shoulders of his jacket dusted with dandruff.
Herrington nods at us, trying to scrape something unpleasant off his shoes. “Did you see Daniel Coleridge’s little showdown with Stanwin?” he asks. “I think we’ve backed the right horse after all.”
The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 26
