Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the edge of the bath, trying to make sense of my situation. Finding their soul cut loose from their body would suggest death to some, but deep down I know this isn’t the afterlife. Hell would have fewer servants and better furnishings, and stripping a man of his sins seems a poor way to sit in judgement on him.
No, I’m alive, though not in any state I recognise. This is something next to death, something more devious, and I’m not alone. The Plague Doctor claimed there are three of us competing to escape Blackheath. Could the footman who left me the dead rabbit be trapped as I am? That would explain why he’s trying to scare me. After all, a race is hard to win if you’re afraid of reaching the finishing line. Perhaps this is what the Plague Doctor considers entertainment, setting us against each other, like half-starved dogs in a pit.
Maybe you should trust him.
‘So much for trauma,’ I mutter at the voice. ‘I thought I’d left you in Bell.’
I know it’s a lie even as I say it. I’m connected to this voice in the same way I’m connected to the Plague Doctor and the footman. I can feel the weight of our history, even if I can’t remember it. They’re part of everything that’s happening to me, pieces of this puzzle I’m scrambling to solve. Whether they’re friends or enemies I can’t be certain, but whatever the voice’s true nature, it hasn’t led me astray so far.
Even so, trusting my captor strikes me as naivety at best. The idea that all of this will end should I solve a murder seems preposterous. Whatever the Plague Doctor’s intent, he came concealed by mask and midnight. He’s wary of being seen, which means there’s leverage to be found in ripping that mask free.
I glance at the clock, weighing my options.
I know he’ll be in the study talking with Sebastian Bell – a previous me, I still can’t quite wrap my head around it! – after the hunt departs, which would seem an ideal time to intercept him. If he wishes me to solve a murder, I’ll do so but it won’t be my only task today. If I’m to ensure my freedom, I must know the identity of the man who has taken it from me, and for that I’m going to need some help.
By the Plague Doctor’s count, I’ve already wasted three of my eight days in this house, those belonging to Sebastian Bell, the butler and Donald Davies. Including myself, that means I have five remaining hosts, and if Bell’s encounter with the butler is any guide, they’re walking around Blackheath, as I am.
That’s an army in waiting.
I just need to work out who they’re wearing.
12
The water’s long cold, leaving me blue and shivering. Vainglorious though it may be, I can’t bear the thought of Ravencourt’s valet lifting me out of this bath like a sodden sack of potatoes.
A polite knock on the bedroom door relieves me of the decision.
‘Lord Ravencourt, is all well?’ he calls, entering the room.
‘Quite well,’ I insist, my hands numb.
His head appears around the edge of the screen, his eyes taking hold of the scene. After a moment’s scrutiny, he approaches without my beckoning, rolling up his sleeves to pull me out of the water with a strength that belies his thin frame.
This time I do not protest. I have too little pride left to salvage.
As he helps me out of the bathtub, I spot the edge of a tattoo poking from beneath his shirt. It’s smeared green, the details lost. Noticing my attention, he hurriedly pulls his sleeve down.
‘Folly of youth, my lord,’ he says.
For ten minutes I stand there, quietly humiliated, as he towels me dry, mothering me into my suit; one leg then the next, one arm then the other. The clothes are silk, beautifully tailored but tugging and pinching like a roomful of elderly aunts. They’re a size too small, fitting Ravencourt’s vanity rather than his body. When all is done, the valet combs my hair, rubbing coconut oil into my fleshy face before handing me a mirror that I might better inspect the results. The reflection is nearing sixty, with suspiciously black hair and brown eyes the colour of weak tea. I search them for some sign of myself, the hidden man working Ravencourt’s strings, but I’m obscured. For the first time I wonder who I was before coming here, and the chain of events that led me into this trap.
Such speculation would be intriguing if it weren’t so frustrating.
As with Bell, my skin prickles when I see Ravencourt in the mirror. Some part of me remembers my real face and is perplexed by this stranger staring back.
I hand the mirror to the valet.
‘We need to go to the library,’ I say.
‘I know where it is, my lord,’ he says. ‘Shall I fetch you a book?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
The valet pauses, frowning. He speaks hesitatingly, his words testing the ground they’re tiptoeing across.
‘It’s a fair walk, my lord. I fear you may find it... tiring.’
‘I’ll manage, besides I need the exercise.’
Arguments queue behind his teeth, but he fetches my cane and an attaché case and leads me into a dark corridor, oil lamps spilling their warm light across the walls.
We walk slowly, the valet tossing news at my feet, but my mind is fixed on the ponderousness of this body I’m dragging forward. It’s as though some fiend has remade the house overnight, stretching the rooms and thickening the air. Wading into the sudden brightness of the entrance hall, I’m surprised to discover how steep the staircase now appears. The steps I sprinted down as Donald Davies would require climbing equipment to surmount this morning. Little wonder Lord and Lady Hardcastle lodged Ravencourt on the ground floor. It would take a pulley, two strong men and a day’s pay to hoist me into Bell’s room.