“Think, silly.”
“Why the heavens not?”
“She doesn’t take kindly to young men who think too much. She believes it’s a sign of idleness.”
The temperature is dropping quickly. What little color was left to the day is fleeing the dark storm clouds bullying the sky.
“Shall we go back to the house?” says Grace, stamping her feet to warm up. “I dislike Blackheath as much as the next girl, but not so much that I’m willing to freeze to death to avoid going back inside it.”
I glance at the reflecting pool a little forlornly, but I can’t press my idea without speaking to Evelyn first, and she’s out walking with Bell. Whatever my mind’s got hold of—to use Grace’s phrase—it’ll have to keep until she returns in a couple of hours. Besides, the idea of spending time with somebody who isn’t mired in today’s many tragedies is appealing.
Our shoulders pressed together, we make our way back to the house, arriving in the entrance hall in time to see Charles Cunningham trotting down the steps. He’s frowning, lost in thought.
“Are you quite all right, Charles?” says Grace, drawing his attention. “Honestly, what is it with the men in this house today? You’re all on a cloud.”
A grin cracks his face, his joy at seeing us quite at odds with the seriousness with which he normally greets me.
“Ah, my two favorite people,” he says grandly, leaping from the third step to clap us both on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
Affection draws a huge smile on my face.
Until now, the valet was simply somebody who flitted in and out of my day, occasionally helpful, but always pursuing some purpose of his own, making him impossible to trust. Seeing him through Rashton’s eyes is like watching a charcoal outline get colored in.
Grace and Donald Davies summered at Blackheath, growing up side by side with Michael, Evelyn, Thomas, and Cunningham. Despite being raised by the cook, Mrs. Drudge, everybody believed he was Peter Hardcastle’s son by birth, and this elevated him beyond the kitchen. Encouraging this perception, Helena Hardcastle instructed the governess to educate Cunningham with the Hardcastle children. He may have become a servant, but neither Grace nor Donald would ever see him as such, no matter what their parents might say. The three of them are practically family, which is why Cunningham was one of the first people Donald Davies introduced Rashton to when they returned from the war. The three of them are as close as brothers.
“Is Ravencourt being a nuisance?” asks Grace. “You didn’t forget his second helping of eggs again, did you? You know how disagreeable that makes him.”
“No, no, it’s not that.” Cunningham shakes his head thoughtfully. “You know how sometimes your day starts as one thing, and then, just like that, it’s something else? Ravencourt told me something rather startling, and to tell you the truth, I still haven’t wrapped my head around it.”
“What did he say?” asks Grace, cocking her head.
“That he’s not…” He trails off, pinching his nose. Thinking better of it, he sighs, dismissing the entire line of conversation. “Best I tell you this evening over a brandy, when everything’s shaken out. Not sure I have the words just yet.”
“It’s always the same with you, Charles,” she says, stamping her foot. “You always start juicy stories but never finish them.”
“Well, maybe this will improve your mood.”
From his pocket he produces a silver key, a cardboard tag identifying it as Sebastian Bell’s. The last time I saw that key, it was in the vile Derby’s pocket, shortly before somebody coshed him over the head outside Stanwin’s bedroom and stole it.
I can feel myself being slotted into place, a cog in a massive ticking clock, propelling a mechanism I’m too small to understand.
“You found it for me?” says Grace, clapping her hands together.
He beams at me. “Grace asked me to snatch a spare key to Bell’s bedroom from the kitchen so we could steal his drugs,” he says, dangling the key from his finger. “I went one better and found the key to his trunk.”
“It’s childish, but I want Bell to suffer the way Donald is suffering,” she says, her eyes glittering viciously.
“And how on earth did you come by the key?” I ask Cunningham.
“In the course of my duties,” he says a little uneasily. “I’ve got his bedroom key in my pocket. All those little vials dropped in the lake, can you imagine?”
“Not the lake,” says Grace, making a face. “It’s bad enough coming back to Blackheath, but I won’t go anywhere near that awful place.”
“There’s the well,” I say, remembering the spot out past the gatehouse where Evelyn collected the note from Felicity. “Old and deep. If we drop the drugs down there, nobody will ever find them.”
“Perfect,” says Cunningham, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Well, the good doctor has gone for a walk with Miss Hardcastle, so I should say this is as good a time as any. Who’s up for a little daylight robbery?”
48
Grace keeps watch by the door as Cunningham and I slip into Bell’s bedroom, nostalgia painting everything in cheerful colors. After wrestling with the domineering natures of my other hosts, my attitude toward Bell has softened considerably. Unlike Derby, Ravencourt, or Rashton, Sebastian Bell was a blank canvas, a man in retreat, even from himself. I poured into him, filling the empty spaces so completely I didn’t even realize he was the wrong shape.
In an odd way, he feels like an old friend.
“Where do you think he keeps the stuff?” Cunningham asks, closing the door behind us.
Though I know perfectly well where Bell’s trunk is, I feign ignorance, giving myself the opportunity to wade about in his absence for a little while, enjoying the sensation of walking back into a life I once inhabited.
Cunningham uncovers the trunk soon enough, though, engaging my help to drag it out of the wardrobe, making a terrible racket as he scrapes it on the wooden floorboards. It’s as well everybody’s hunting as the noise could wake the dead.
The key fits perfectly, the latch springing open on well-oiled hinges to reveal an interior stuffed to bursting with brown vials and bottles arranged in neat rows.
Cunningham has brought a cotton sack, and kneeling either side of the trunk, we begin filling it with Bell’s stash. There are tinctures and concoctions of every sort and not merely those designed to put a foolish smile on the face. Among the dubious pleasures is a half-empty flask of strychnine, the white grains looking for all the world like large chunks of salt.
Now what’s he doing with that?
“Bell will sell anything to anyone, won’t he?” says Cunningham with a tut, plucking the flask from my hand and dropping it into the sack. “Not for much longer, though.”
Picking the bottles from the trunk, I remember the note Gold pushed under my door, and the three things it demanded I pilfer. Thankfully, Cunningham’s so enraptured by his task he doesn’t notice me slipping the bottles into my pocket, or the chess piece I drop into the trunk. Amid all the plots, it seems an inconsequential thing to bother with, but I can still remember how much comfort it brought me, how much strength. It was a kindness when I needed one most, and it cheers me to be the one delivering it.
“Charles, I need you to tell me the truth about something,” I begin.
“I’ve told you, I’m not getting between you and Grace,” he says distantly, carefully filling his sack. “Whatever you’re arguing about this week, admit you’re wrong and be grateful when she accepts your apology.”
He flashes me a grin, but it evaporates when he sees my grim expression.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Where did you get the key to the trunk?” I reply.
“If you must know, one of the servants gave it to me,” he says, avoiding my gaze as he continues to pack.
“No, they didn’t,�
�� I say, scratching my neck. “You took it off Jonathan Derby’s body after you coshed him over the head. Daniel Coleridge hired you to steal Stanwin’s blackmail ledger, didn’t he?”
“Th…that’s nonsense,” he says.
“Please, Charles,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “I’ve already spoken with Stanwin.”
Rashton has counted on Cunningham’s friendship and counsel many times over the years, and watching him squirm under the spotlight of my questioning is unbearable.
“I…I didn’t mean to hit him,” says Cunningham, shamefaced. “I’d just put Ravencourt into his bath and was going for my breakfast when I heard a commotion on the stairs. I saw Derby hare into the study with Stanwin on his tail. I thought I could slip into Stanwin’s room while everybody was distracted and grab the ledger, but the bodyguard was in there, so I hid in one of the rooms opposite, waiting to see what would happen.”
“You saw Dickie give the bodyguard a sedative, and then Derby find the ledger,” I say. “You couldn’t let him walk out of there with it. It was too valuable.”
Cunningham nods eagerly.
“Stanwin knows what happened that morning. He knows who really killed Thomas,” he says. “He’s been lying all this time. It’s in that ledger of his. Coleridge is going to decipher it for me, and then everybody will know my father, my real father, is innocent.”
Fear swells in his eyes.
“Does Stanwin know about the bargain I struck with Coleridge?” he asks suddenly. “Is that why you met with him?”
“He doesn’t know anything,” I say gently. “I went to ask about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.”
“And he told you?”
“He owed me for saving his life.”
Cunningham is still on his knees, his hands gripping my shoulders. “You’re a miracle worker, Rasher,” he says. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
“He saw Lady Hardcastle covered in blood and cradling Thomas’s body,” I say, watching him closely. “Stanwin drew the obvious conclusion, but Carver arrived some minutes later and insisted Stanwin place the blame on him.”
Cunningham stares through me as he tries to pick holes in an answer long sought. When he speaks again, there’s bitterness in his voice.
“Of course,” he says, sagging to the floor. “I’ve spent years trying to prove my father was innocent, so naturally I find out that my mother’s the murderer instead.”
“How long have you known who your real parents are?” I say, doing my best to sound consoling.
“Mother told me when I turned twenty-one,” he says. “She said my father wasn’t the monster he was accused of being, but would never explain why. I’ve spent every day since then trying to work out what she meant.”
“You saw her this morning, didn’t you?”
“I took her tea,” he says gently. “She drank it in bed while we spoke. I used to do the same thing when I was a child. She’d ask after my happiness, my education. She was kind to me. It was my favorite time of the day.”
“And this morning? I assume she didn’t mention anything suspicious?”
“About murdering Thomas? No, it didn’t come up,” he says sarcastically.
“I meant anything out of character, unusual.”
“Out of character,” he snorts. “She’s barely been in character for a year, or more. Can’t keep up with her. One minute she’s giddy, the next she’s in tears.”
“A year,” I say thoughtfully. “Ever since she visited Blackheath on the anniversary of Thomas’s death?”
It was after that visit she turned up on Michael’s doorstep raving about clothes.
“Yes…maybe,” he says, tugging an earlobe. “I say, you don’t think it all got on top of her, do you? The guilt I mean. That would explain why she’s been acting so queer. Maybe she’s been building up her courage to finally confess. It would certainly make sense of her mood this morning.”
“Why? What did you speak about?”
“She was calm, actually. A touch distant. She talked about putting things right, and how she was sorry I’d had to grow up ashamed of my father’s name.” His face falls. “That’s it, isn’t it? She means to confess at the party tonight. That’s why she’s gone to all this trouble to reopen Blackheath and invite the same guests back.”
“Maybe,” I say, unable to keep my doubt from surfacing. “Why were your fingerprints all over her planner? What were you looking for?”
“When I pressed her for more information, she asked me to look up what time she was meeting the stable master. She said she’d be able to tell me more after that, and I should come by the stables. I waited, but she never arrived. I’ve been looking for her all day, but nobody’s seen her. Maybe she’s gone to the village.”
I ignore that.
“Tell me about the stable hand who went missing,” I say. “You asked the stable master about him.”
“Nothing to tell really. A few years back, I got drunk with the inspector who investigated Thomas’s murder. He never believed my father—Carver, I mean—did it, mainly because this other boy, Keith Parker, had gone missing a week earlier while my father was in London with Lord Hardcastle, and he didn’t like the coincidence. The inspector asked around after the boy, but nothing came of it. By all accounts, Parker up and left without a word to anybody and never came back. They never found a body, so couldn’t disprove the rumor that he’d run away.”
“Did you know him?”
“Vaguely. He used to play with us sometimes, but even the servants’ children had jobs to do around the house. He worked in the stables most of the time. We rarely saw him.”
Catching my mood, he looks at me inquisitively.
“Do you really think my mother’s a murderer?” he says.
“That’s what I need your help to find out,” I say. “Your mother entrusted Mrs. Drudge to raise you, yes? Does that mean they were close?”
“Very close. Mrs. Drudge was the only other person who knew about my real father before Stanwin found out.”
“Good. I’m going to need a favor.”
“What sort of favor?”
“Two favors actually,” I say. “I need Mrs. Drudge to… Oh!”
I’ve just caught up to my past. The answer to a question I was about to ask has already been delivered to me. Now I need to make sure it happens again.
Cunningham waves a hand in front of my face. “You quite all right, Rasher? You seem to have come over a bit queer.”
“Sorry, old chap, I got distracted,” I say, batting away his confusion. “As I was saying, I need Mrs. Drudge to clear something up for me, and then I need you to gather a few people together. When you’re done, find Jonathan Derby and tell him everything you’ve discovered.”
“Derby? What’s that scoundrel got to do with this?”
The door opens, Grace poking her head inside the room.
“For heaven’s sake, what’s taking so long?” she asks. “If we wait any longer, we’re going to have to run Bell a bath and pretend we’re servants.”
“One more minute,” I say, laying my hand on Cunningham’s arm. “We’re going to put this right, I promise you. Now listen closely, this is important.”
49
The cotton sack clinks as we walk, its weight conspiring with the uneven ground to continually trip me up, Grace wincing in sympathy at each stumble.
Cunningham’s run off to do my favor, Grace meeting his sudden departure with puzzled silence. I feel the urge to explain, but Rashton knows this woman well enough to know it’s not expected. Ten minutes after Donald Davies introduced his grateful family to the man who’d saved his life during the war, it was clear to anybody with eyes and a heart that Jim Rashton and Grace Davies would one day be married. Undaunted by their different backgrounds, they spent that first dinner building a bridge out of affectionate barbs and probing q
uestions, love blossoming across a table littered with cutlery Rashton couldn’t identify. What was born that day has only grown since, the two of them coming to inhabit a world of their own making. Grace knows I’ll tell the story when it’s finished, when it’s shored up with facts strong enough to support the telling. In the meantime, we walk together in a companionable silence, happy just to be in each other’s company.
I’m wearing my brass knuckles, having vaguely mentioned a threat from Bell and Doctor Dickie’s confederates. It’s a weak lie, but it’s enough to keep Grace on her toes, the young woman whipping her head toward every dripping leaf. So it is, we come upon the well, Grace pushing aside a tree branch that I might emerge into the clearing without becoming snagged. I immediately drop the sack into the well, where it hits the bottom with a tremendous crash.
Waggling my arms, I try to shake the ache from my muscles, as Grace peers into the well’s darkness.
“Any wishes?” she asks.
“That I don’t have to carry the sack back,” I say.
“Oh, my heavens, it really works,” she says. “Do you think I can wish for more wishes?”
“Sounds like cheating to me.”
“Well, nobody’s used it for years, there’s probably a few going spare.”
“May I ask you a question?” I reply.
“Never known you to be shy about them,” she says, leaning so far into the well her feet are in the air.
“The morning of Thomas’s murder, when you went on the scavenger hunt, who was with you?”
“Come on, Jim, it was nineteen years ago,” she says, her voice muffled by the stone.
“Was Charles there?”
“Charles?” She removes her head from the well. “Yes, probably.”
“Probably, or actually? It’s important, Grace.”
“I can see that,” she says, pulling herself clear and wiping her hands. “Has he done something wrong?”
“I really hope not.”
“So do I,” she says, mirroring my concern. “Let me think. Wait a tick. Yes, he was there! He stole an entire fruitcake from the kitchen. I remember him giving me and Donald some. Must have driven Mrs. Drudge wild.”
The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 33
