A tall fellow in a charcoal-stained shirt is bound by his wrists and dangling from a hook on the ceiling, his feet only barely touching the floor. He’s unconscious, a head full of dark curly hair slumped against his chest, blood speckling his face.
‘Nope, must be the other side,’ says Evelyn, her voice bland and unconcerned.
‘What the devil?’ I say, taking a step back in alarm. ‘Who is this man, Evelyn?’
‘This is Gregory Gold, the fellow who assaulted our butler,’ says Evelyn, eyeing him as one would a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. ‘The butler was my father’s batman during the war. Seems Father’s taken the assault rather personally.’
‘Personally?’ I say. ‘Evie, he’s been strung up like a pig!’
‘Father’s never been a subtle man, or a particularly clever one,’ she shrugs. ‘I suspect the two things go hand in hand.’
For the first time since I awoke, my blood is boiling. Whatever this man’s crimes, justice can’t be served by a length of rope in a locked room.
‘We can’t leave him like this,’ I protest. ‘It’s inhuman.’
‘What he did was inhuman,’ says Evelyn, her chill touching me for the first time. ‘Mother commissioned Gold to tidy up a few of the family portraits, nothing more. He didn’t even know the butler and yet this morning he took after him with a poker and beat him half to death. Believe me, Sebastian, he deserves worse than what’s happening to him here.’
‘What’s to become of him?’ I ask.
‘A constable is coming from the village,’ says Evelyn, ushering me out of the small room, and closing the door behind us, her mood brightening immediately. ‘Father wants to let Gold know of his displeasure in the meantime, that’s all. Ah, this must be the one we wanted.’
She opens another door on the opposite side of the hall, and we enter a small room with whitewashed walls and a single window blinded by dirt. Unlike the rest of the house, there’s no draught in here and a good fire’s burning in the grate, plenty of wood stacked nearby to feed it. There’s an iron bed in the corner, the butler shapeless beneath a grey blanket. I recognise this chap. It’s the burnt man who let me in this morning.
Evelyn was right, he’s been cruelly treated. His face is hideously bruised and livid with cuts, dried blood staining the pillowcase. I might have mistaken him for dead if it weren’t for his constant murmuring, distress poisoning his sleep.
A maid is sitting beside him in a wooden chair, a large book open in her lap. She can’t be more than twenty-three, small enough to tuck into a pocket, with blonde hair spilling from beneath her cap. She looks up as we enter, slamming the book closed and leaping to her feet when she realises who we are, hastily smoothing out her white apron.
‘Miss Evelyn,’ she stammers, eyes on the floor. ‘I didn’t know you’d be visiting.’
‘My friend here needed to see Mr Collins,’ says Evelyn.
The maid’s brown eyes flick towards me, before pinning themselves to the ground once more.
‘I’m sorry, miss, he hasn’t stirred all morning,’ says the maid. ‘The doctor gave him some tablets to help him sleep.’
‘And he can’t be woken?’
‘Haven’t tried, miss, but you made an awful racket coming up them stairs and he didn’t bat an eyelid. Don’t know what else would do it, if that didn’t. Dead to the world, he is.’
The maid’s eyes find me once again, lingering long enough to suggest some sort of familiarity, before resuming their former contemplation of the floor.
‘I’m sorry, but do we know each other?’ I ask.
‘No, sir, not really, it’s just... I served you at dinner last night.’
‘Did you bring me a note?’ I ask excitedly.
‘Not me, sir, it was Madeline.’
‘Madeline?’
‘My lady’s maid,’ interrupts Evelyn. ‘The house was short-staffed so I sent her down to the kitchen to help out. Well, that’s fortunate’ – she checks her wristwatch – ‘she’s taking refreshments out to the hunters, but she’ll be back around three p.m. We can question her together when she returns.’
I turn my attention back to the maid.
‘Do you know anything more about the note?’ I ask. ‘Its contents, perhaps?’
The maid shakes her head, wringing her hands. The poor creature looks quite on the spot, and, taking pity on her, I offer my thanks and leave.
7
We’re following the road to the village, the trees drawing closer with every step. It’s not quite what I’d anticipated. The map in the study conjured images of some grand labour, a boulevard hewn from the forest. The reality is little more than a wide dirt track, wretched with potholes and fallen branches. The forest hasn’t been tamed so much as bartered with, the Hardcastles winning the barest of concessions from their neighbour.
I don’t know our destination, but Evelyn believes we can intercept Madeline on her way back from the hunt. Secretly, I suspect she’s simply looking for an excuse to prolong her absence from the house. Not that any subterfuge is necessary. This last hour in Evelyn’s company is the first time since waking that I’ve felt myself a whole person, rather than the remnants of one. Out here, in the wind and rain, with a friend by my side, I’m happier than I have been all day.
‘What do you believe Madeline can tell you?’ asks Evelyn, picking a branch off the path and tossing it into the forest.
‘The note that she brought me last night lured me out into the woods so somebody could attack me,’ I say.
‘Attack!’ interrupts Evelyn, shocked. ‘Here? Why?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m hoping Madeline can tell me who sent the note. She might even have peeked at the message.’
‘There’s no “might” about it,’ says Evelyn. ‘Madeline was in Paris with me. She’s loyal and she makes me laugh, but she’s an atrocious maid. She probably considers peeking at other people’s mail a perk of the job.’
‘That’s very lenient of you,’ I say.
‘I have to be, I can’t pay very well,’ she says. ‘And after she’s revealed the contents of the message, what then?’
‘I tell the police,’ I say. ‘And hopefully put this matter to bed.’